Angels and Heroes
by SuperNatasha
Summary: The world's only consulting detective is raised from the dead by a renegade angel. Saving the world has never been sexier... nor more socially awkward. Multiple Pairings.
1. Chapter 1: Introduction

Sherlock was exhausted. He'd spent the last three days with no food, minimal water, and only very brief naps as he tried to find out as much as he could. About what could bring a man back from the dead -about what could have brought _him_ back from the dead- and left a massive handprint on his arm. So far, he hadn't had any luck.

"Anything interesting?" Molly asked, bearing two mugs of coffee (black, two sugars, she still remembered).

He didn't reply, only took the bitter dark liquid from her and sipped, scalding his tongue. He scowled and went back to peering at his own skin sample into the microscope. What left that kind of scar? It was almost branded into his skin, clearly still red and healing but it didn't hurt. At all.

As Molly quietly collected old mugs and tidied his pile of papers, she still marveled over how Sherlock had turned up alive at her front door after he was supposed to be dead. And how healthy he looked. He had been given a new mystery to solve, the greatest of his lifetime: why wasn't he dead after he'd jumped off a building and been buried?

He didn't look too healthy now. Sherlock's dark hair was a mess, falling into his eyes ringed with dark circles, movements sluggish with tiredness. But sheer stubbornness kept him going.

With worry, Molly said, "Take a break, Sherlock. You need to eat. And rest."

"Minor details, Molly Hooper, very minor details." His voice cracked with disuse. "I can't be distracted now; please feel welcome to leave anytime. And don't forget to bring more coffee in… oh, two hours or so."

She was used to his rude behavior by now, but this time Molly didn't move. "I don't think so. You can't keep going like this, you'll kill yourself!"

"I can take care of myself. Thank you now, off you go." His attention returned wholly back to the petri dish.

"Sherlock Holmes! Stop it!" Molly's voice raised a few octaves.

"Really, you're being absurd-"

"NO!" Molly flinched at the sound of her own yell, but it was enough for Sherlock to look up, an eyebrow raised. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I just meant… when was the last time you went out?"

"You know when I did." He said, eyes narrowing.

"No, I really don't. I can't remember. I just remember going out to get your groceries and equipment and making strong coffee." She insisted.

"What's the date?" Sherlock asked.

"The 25th."

"That's ridiculous. I haven't been inside for a week... Oh," Sherlock trailed off when he saw the look on Molly's face. "I guess I have. It's not unreasonable."

"Is it because you saw him? At the cemetery when you went to look for clues?"

When Sherlock didn't answer, Molly knew that was the reason. "Why don't you just tell him?" She asked softly.

"I _can't_ until I know the reason I'm still here. Aren't you in the most fantastic shock of your life to see a dead man in your house, drinking and talking and thinking?" He demanded. "I can't do that to John, not until I know why I'm here myself!"

At the mention of his name, Sherlock's voice rose, almost in anger. He was frustrated that he couldn't go see his partner, no matter how well he normally tried to hide it. Every time the thought of John Watson passed over Sherlock's mind, he drowned it out with research lest the cloud engulf his entire being.

Molly leaned forward and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder (which he struggled not to shake off). "I insist you eat and get some air."

Sherlock rose abruptly, Molly's hand falling off. She withdrew it hesitantly. "Did you get the supplies I asked for?"

"Yes. They're in the next room." She murmured, subdued.

"Great! I've got a killer appetite, perhaps you could make some dinner while I get ready for a stroll?" He asked enthusiastically.

Molly could not get her head around this man, his moods nearly as difficult to keep up with as his strange requests. "You mean lunch? It's noon."

Putting a hand on the dark, thick curtain he'd placed on the window, he opened it with a long elegant move. He nodded his observation, "So it is." He turned back to her. "Well, I'll just be out after a shower." He said brightly, and disappeared out of the room.

Molly stared after him, then shook her head and went off to cook.

* * *

><p>An hour later, Molly set the table for two. She heaped mashed potatoes and spaghetti and bread into a plate for Sherlock. Judging by the sounds, she figured he was almost out, and he would be undoubtedly starving.<p>

Smiling at the completed task, she turned to get the water pitcher and spotted a tall shadow. As the figure came into view, Molly Hooper let out a long shrill shriek.

"Sherlock! HELP! THERE'S SOMEONE IN-"

The figure rushed forward and covered her mouth with his long fingers. "Oh, Molly, stop being so dramatic. It's me." The figure snapped.

Molly gaped in astonishment as Sherlock's voice emerged from under a thick red moustache, substantially long nose, slicked back hair, and small narrowed eyes. "Is that…?"

"Yes, it's Sherlock. I've disguised myself. Can't have all of London wondering why the world's only dead consulting detective is wandering the streets. Especially when I don't even know why. Now, where's the lunch? My stomach is digesting itself!"

"You did all that with putty?" She asked wide-eyed.

"Yes. I also borrowed a bit of make up from your kit. Might I add, the shampoo in your shower is not actually made of real vanilla bean, no matter what the label says." Sherlock strode past Molly to the table and sat down. He began to vigorously eat, hardly pausing for breath.

"Wow, it didn't seem like you…" Molly studied him.

"Yes, yes. The subtle difference between 'seem' and 'is'."

"Erm, of course. So where are you of to now? See John?" She asked.

Sherlock paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "No."

"But-"

"No."

Molly pressed her lips together. When Sherlock had told her he thought he would die, his main concern had been requesting her to keep an eye on John. To make sure he didn't drown himself in alcohol like his sister, to get him a job at the clinic, to drop by and keep him from getting too lonely. She had done everything he asked… but now he was denying himself. And that seemed wrong.

"He's your best mate, Sherlock."

"I wasn't _burned, _that much is certain. It's an organic sort of burn, perhaps internal. But I can't be too sure until I x-ray myself. And not to mention the shape of a hand is quite distinct, that's no coincidence. The more important question is how was I revived? A science experiment, I would suppose, but none that I've ever heard of save those of Dr. Frankenstein." Sherlock avoided the John-issue with his thoughts on his research, speaking fast and low under his fake red moustache.

There was silence from Molly. Finally, she pursued a different topic. "I need to leave for work in an hour, Sherlock. And I won't be back for a while. What're you going to do, I have to know."

"I have a key to your apartment. Obviously." He muttered.

"What? How?" She gaped.

"I made a copy when we first met at the morgue. You kept all your files on your laptop back then and I needed access to them." Sherlock continued eating.

"You broke into my house?" Molly's voice was suddenly shrill.

"I didn't _break_ anything, let's just be accurate for a moment." He told her, and _he_ was the one who looked affronted. "And actually, now seems to be a good time to be off." Sherlock shoveled one last bite into his mouth and stood, heading for the door.

"Wait- Sherlock!" Molly called.

He stopped, hand on the doorknob, but didn't turn to look.

Molly blinked and looked down at her scuffed shoes, not even wanting to look at his back as she said the words. "I'm sorry. About all of this."

"Acknowledged," and Sherlock left.

* * *

><p>There was only one woman behind the bus station today. Finding her had been quite lucky, actually. It was getting dark and Sherlock had arrived here only after visiting several other places. Sherlock had already wrapped two 50 pound notes (borrowed from Molly Hooper without her knowing- yet) around a list which read as follows:<p>

-Find out what John Watson of 22B Baker Street is up to.  
>-Inquire after Mrs. Hudson of the same address.<br>-DI Lestrade- who are his moles on the street?  
>-Rumors of men coming back from the dead? What's the general word?<br>-Branded hand prints appearing on skin? Has anyone heard of this?

He smiled as he approached the woman. "Care for a cup of tea on my expense, miss?" He asked.

The woman looked surprised. Her face was streaked with dirt, hair in messy dreads. She pulled her small grocery bag of belongings closer to her and shook her head. "Who are you? I don't do business. Go away."

"Oh, I apologize if I don't look familiar." Sherlock leaned closer to her and whispered, "Disguises are quite useful, aren't they? Tell me, how's your brother doing? Is he still carrying that blanket I left with him?"

"I don't… oh! Is that you, sir, Mr. Holmes?" Recognition dawned on the woman's face.

Sherlock straightened. "Please. Voices have a tendency to carry quite a distance, don't they?" He held out the money and list.

The woman took it discreetly and smiled. "Three hours. Train station, platform 3."

Sherlock nodded and continued walking. He felt almost self-conscious walking about in a city that had rejected him as a liar and traitor. As if everyone's eyes were now looking at him with suspicion. They would see through his disguise. Sherlock had faith in himself that he was physically altered beyond recognition. Nevertheless, it's hard to revive a broken ego.

As he walked, his eyes fell on a strange sign on the opposite building, directly in his line of sight. He paused in the middle of the street, staring at the piece of red graffiti: a star filled in with symbols. All his attempts to place it fell flat. But it _was_ something he'd seen before. And most compelling was the arrow above it.

Almost on a hunch, Sherlock decided to follow the arrow. It pointed down a side street. Sherlock entered the slightly darkened street and there was another sign. This time, instead of following the arrow, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and ran through the symbols in his head. He blocked out the sounds of cars and pedestrians and then his eyes flashed open.

He'd seen those symbols in a church before. He'd been there investigating the murder of a vicar, and those had been in one of his ancient books. Sherlock didn't know what they stood for, he'd only glanced them in passing. Who were they for? And what about the arrows?

Intrigued, Sherlock took off in a jog behind the arrows. He found two more symbols, each leading him to more obscure and darkened places. Feeling for the gun in his back pocket he'd acquired earlier in the day, he briefly considered returning after his current mystery was solved. But he couldn't turn away.

The final symbol led him to a doorway in an abandoned alley. The metal gate was covered with several more of the symbols, some of which were clearly of Christian origins, other Gaelic and Celtic. Trying to interpret did no good. They were absolutely foreign.

Grasping the gun in his hand and keeping it hidden under his coat, Sherlock nudged the gate open with his boot. It creaked and Sherlock flinched. He froze, listening for any sort of sound. When there was no reaction, he slipped through the crack he'd created.

Inside, the warehouse (and Sherlock deduced accurately that's what it was) seemed empty. There was a single light on, a bare bulb that cast the interior of the building into sharp shadows and monotone color. The filthy windows were caked with dirt and years of dust masked Sherlocks footsteps as he made his way deeper in.

Sighing relieved that the place was empty, Sherlock relaxed. He let his senses calm.

Just as he did, a sharp high pitched noise started. Sherlock pulled out his gun wildly and pointed, but he was unsure where he _should_ point. There seemed to be no origin to the noise. It increased in frequency and volume until all the windows shattered and Sherlock dropped the gun, falling to his knees and covering his ears with trembling hands.

"Agh! Make it stop!" He roared, helpless and (despite his best efforts) slightly frightened.

As abruptly as the keening started, it died off. Sherlock warily raised his head, grabbing for the gun. With as much delicacy as he could manage, he stood up. His mind still vibrated with the noise, his thoughts feeling scrambled.

Collecting himself, Sherlock suddenly realized there was a figure standing directly under the bulb. He pointed his gun at the man; Sherlock was sure that's what he was. The light washed out the features of his face, but he could still make it out. Within a second, Sherlock placed him to be about 35, 5'11, a natural brunette, and unafraid.

"Who are you?" he demanded harshly. "Speak! Or I'll shoot!"

The man, in a tone that was immediately both detached and authoritative, said "Hello, Sherlock Holmes. I'm Castiel, the angel who raised you from Hell. I need your help."


	2. Chapter 2: Information & Impossibilities

Castiel took a single step forward. Just one. Enough to take him out of the light and enough to make Sherlock flinch.

"Don't move. I have a gun." Sherlock warned in reasonable, sound voice.

"A gun that, please do believe me, is quite useless against my vessel." Castiel assured him.

"What _vessel_?" Sherlock sneered while mentally assessing the scenario. American accent, decent but worn trench coat, scuffed shoes, holding himself very upright: a man who was either completely oblivious or regularly demanded respect. No immediate tell-tale signs of identity. Sherlock needed to intimidate him, so he added: "And when I warn you, don't think I'm joking."

"I know you aren't. I want to talk to you, Sherlock Holmes."

"The disguise didn't work, did it?" Sherlock clicked his tongue against the inside of his mouth. He pulled the moustache off, which was now starting to itch anyway. The glue would've worn off in an hour anyway.

"Of course not. Your aura is recognizable from the heavens. I've been watching you."

"Watching me? Like a pervert or like a very crazed fan?"

"Like a guardian. Like someone who has use for your talents. Like someone who thought you were important enough to bring back to life."

Sherlock's brain was racing- _this man knows something about why I'm alive_- but he forced his attitude to remain unaffected. Keeping his face straight, he interrogated, "So you did that? Your people? Who are your people, actually- scientists, spies, government individuals? Is it Moriarty again?"

"Moriarty… was a thorn in the plan. He elongated the process of acquiring you. But never mind, I spotted him in the very same hell from which I rescued you." Castiel remained so steadfast and serious that Sherlock came to the conclusion he was dealing with a lunatic. A man who believed his own lies.

"So I was in Hell, yes?" Sherlock played along.

"Yes." Castiel affirmed, completely missing the sarcasm in his voice.

"How'd you do it, then? Did you give me poison so I would lose consciousness for days? Were you in the hospital? Did you get my body from the morgue? Were you amused when I dug myself out of my own bloody grave? Most importantly, tell me, were you amused when all my friends wept over me!" The hand holding the gun quivered as John Watson ran in and out through Sherlock's mind as quick as an arrow before Sherlock actively suppressed the thought.

"I'm sorry if you were inconvenienced, but there are things more important than your friends." Castiel cocked his head to the side, almost as if remembering something or someone, and amended his statement, "It _may_ be more important than your friends, if your friends are anything like the Winchesters."

The sudden move and, in fact, only humanity the man had shown so far alarmed Sherlock. "What do you want?" Sherlock demanded. "And when you talk, stay where you are."

"I come to ask for your help. But first, I need to make sure of something…"

Taking no heed of Sherlock's words, Castiel took another step forward. This time, Sherlock didn't announce his intentions. This was going too slowly. Sherlock needed more hard data instead of sifting through this man's delusions. He leveled the gun with Castiel's kneecap and fired. He expected the other man to fall, to gasp in pain, to clutch at his knee, to at least trip. Instead, he continued to advance.

"What?" Disbelief showed on Sherlock's face. Was he wearing Kevlar? He steadied his hand, aimed at Castiel's chest, and fired off two rapid shots. Still, the other man didn't even so much as hesitate.

Now a primal and adrenaline-laced fear came over Sherlock Holmes. He was a man of science, of logic. When he took a fatal firearm and attacked a man with it, he expected results. A therefore B. And when his world refused to function properly, it took all his willpower to even think. The first time something like this had happened, when Sherlock had seen a monstrous dog while drugged, he'd managed to rationalize his way through. Of course then, he'd had his best friend with him.

Sherlock scrambled back, slipped his footing and ended up in a crouch. "Stop! I'll shoot you in the _face_!" He yelled, losing his calm. It wasn't a particularly effective threat. It was delivered with the demeanor of children threatening each other in the playground with less deadly weapons.

"Your bullets do nothing!" The angel grabbed the shoulder of Sherlock's coat and hauled him upright. His gun clattered to the floor. "Look at me! I'm an angel!" He shouted, forcing Sherlock to stand upright.

"There's no such thing!" Sherlock countered, his brain working overtime for a plan. Choosing offense and escape, he pulled back his fist and punched the man in the face. Pain shot up through his knuckles, but he was pleased with the result.

Castiel's neck cracked back with force, but his grip on Sherlock's coat didn't loosen. "Stop!" He bellowed.

But now Sherlock had found a plan and he was going to follow through. Despite the pain in his fist, he clenched once more and put all his weight into the punch. This time when he connected with flesh, Castiel kneeled with impact, holding his jaw with his free hand. Sherlock used the opportunity to loosen his coat and wriggle out of it.

Gathering himself, Castiel realized he was left holding empty fabric. Anguished, he spotted Sherlock slipping back out the gate he'd come in from. He sighed. This was always the difficult part, wasn't it? He needed to check if Sherlock still had his soul. If this turned out to be anything like Sam, things would get more complicated. Castiel closed his eyes and concentrated. He found Sherlock running through the alley outside and gaining speed.

Sherlock evened his breath and lengthened his stride, prepared to outrun his enemy. He was looking to put as much distance between himself and the warehouse as he could. Calculations occurred in his head at lightning speed: his current velocity, the lack of any weapons on the ground, how long until the alley opened into an empty street, the time it would take the mysterious man to recover.

A moment later, Sherlock crashed into Castiel as the angel appeared before him in a flash of pure white light. He fell sprawling to the concrete.

Castiel used both hands to grab Sherlock's shoulders and keep him pushed down on the ground. Sherlock struggled, legs flailing to get free. "Let… me… go!" He grunted.

"You may be extraordinary, Sherlock, but you're _only human._" Castiel whispered then promptly vanished, leaving only the echo of wings beating together.

Sherlock continued to thrash about on the ground for another moment until his brain comprehended that the threat was gone. Very slowly and carefully, he sat upright. After the physical exertion and effort, the lack of pressure seemed suspicious. After a suitable amount of time had passed, he rose.

Very suddenly, his entire body seemed unimaginably tired. The chill of the night wind nipped at Sherlock's skin through the cheap cotton button-up Molly Hooper had bought for him. His gun and coat were both lying back at the warehouse, and Sherlock was loathe to go back in danger. He was defenseless, cold, and dirty.

Sherlock felt very, very alone.

There was such a mental overload of information and impossibilities that it seemed his mind had simply gone blank. It was a frightening sensation, to not have the power of his thoughts and to feel as if his body was betraying him.

Sherlock lurched forward and followed the alley until he arrived at the street. Suddenly conscious of his missing moustache and disheveled appearance, Sherlock turned up his coat collar. He spotted the staircase for the train station. In a moment of clarity, he remembered paying one of his network and her instructions to meet him.

Gripping the railing and fighting exhaustion, Sherlock numbly followed the signs to Platform 3. She was already there, frowning and even stunned by how openly Sherlock was wandering in her direction.

It occurred to him that he was doing something wrong. Through a quick self-diagnosis, Sherlock settled on the word "shock", which resounded through his mind but did not actually stop anywhere. He would have to eat again. He needed a damn cigarette.

The woman beckoned for Sherlock to follow and he nodded. She led him for a few minutes to a utility room, where she swung the doors and disappeared from view. With a backward glance, Sherlock stumbled through the doorway. It was abandoned, clearly deduced from the dim emergency lighting and lack of supplies.

The woman smiled and started by asking, "Mr. Holmes, why the sudden interest in zombies?"

"Zombies?" He echoed. "I'm unfamiliar with the word."

Not sure if he was joking or genuinely unaware, the woman clarified, "Well, zombies. You know, the fuckers that rise from the dead and feed on people's brains."

Sherlock excused her language as he dealt with it regularly among his homeless network. It seemed to give them some kind of comfort to pronounce words with taboo connotations. Instead, he asked, "And are they a regular occurrence?"

Again, the woman hesitated. "Well, they're not real, yeah? I mean, just in movies and novels. People don't come back from the dead, Mr. Holmes."

"Ever?"

"Ever." She confirmed. "Well- right except for Jesus Christ. Can't forget him."

Sherlock dismissed the statement. Mycroft had once told him about the stories of Jesus and Sherlock found no importance for them in his mind and had quickly expunged the knowledge. "What about the rest?"

"John Watson and Mrs. Hudson of 22B Baker Street were both followed to a grocery store yesterday by a mate of mine. He remembers 'cause the lady gave him biscuits and told him if he ever got too hungry, he should drop by hers and she'd feed him leftovers. He said the lady went back home and the man stayed at a café for hours."

"Hours? Doing what?"

"Nothing, apparently. We get all sorts in London, don't we?" She laughed, and then went on. "Lestrade does have men on the street, but only two. And we don't talk to them. They're obvious moles, don't do too good of a job at it either."

"Can I talk to them? Get them to send a message to Lestrade? Who are they? Where do they stay?"

The woman shrugged. "Not the streets, nor any of the stations. We think they might have some kind of homeless shelter where someone saves them a bed at night. Me and my mates always get turned away from those sorts of places."

"Mates and I." Sherlock corrected her absent-mindedly. "And the last thing? The rumors of hand prints?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"What, 'no'?"

"There are no rumors, sir. At least not around these parts. I'll keep asking around of course, and let you know if I see you again."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you, miss. Stay safe. There are some wild occurrences going on out there." He gestured outside the door.

"We manage, Mr. Holmes. Goodbye." The woman nodded and walked out.

After she left, Sherlock stared blankly at the door and reflected, 'So, _I'm a zombie.' _

Eventually, he went back out and braved the icy streets where someone could spot and place him as the great dead consulting detective. Even though he was shivering from the wind, he stopped outside 22B Baker Street and a very strong pang of homesickness stabbed through him. He knew the massive risk he was taking just being outside the door but he couldn't help himself.

The familiar door, the cozy home on the other side, the smell of Mrs. Hudson's cooking, John clacking away typing on his laptop, telly on playing some mindless drivel, the reminder of a comforting pack of nicotine patches under the sofa…

Sherlock forced himself to turn away. Perhaps it was time to tell those closest to him of his existence. But even he knew he might just throw them into danger by even hinting at his survival. He'd have to keep an eye out for spies surrounding 22B. Jim Moriarty was a cunning man. He might have left someone behind.

Was he a cunning man, though? Or merely a "thorn" in someone else's side?

Sherlock turned and kept walking, making himself forget. He _wasn't_ going to endanger his best friend's life. Keeping his head down, he reached Molly's apartment and let himself in. This was beginning to become a temporary sort of home as well.

He sat down at her laptop and began searching for lore on angels. Sherlock didn't believe what the man- Castiel- had said; his mind wouldn't let him. But some small voice was whispering that he at least needed to cover all his bases. Forgetting his hunger and the darkness in the apartment, Sherlock again immersed himself in religious and spiritual myths of all kinds pertaining to angels.

When he'd exhausted the prevalent material, he shut his eyes tightly and tried to remember the conversation again in entirety. It helped that there was no one in the dark room and the events were still fresh in his mind. His hands moved of their own accord as he again saw the man claim to be an angel, he mimicked aiming his gun, the words flew in his mind. Then he stopped at a particular phase.

"_If your friends are anything like the Winchesters."_

_Winchesters._

Winchester: Sherlock swiftly reviewed the knowledge he had of the word in his mind. There was the gun, the man named after the gun, the man's wife who built a fantastic sort of house. There was the city and cathedral in England, the college correlated to it, the bottle of darkish color in laboratories.

But these were people; more specifically, friends of the trench-coated men. Illusions in his mind, or actual existing human beings?

Sherlock returned to the laptop. First, he opened the persons' database using Mycroft's ID and password. His fingers hovered over the keys. He wanted to search the Winchesters, more than one person, from America who were somehow related to angel lore.

Typing in the appropriate search but in despair, Sherlock was surprised when several different names came up in the criminal database. _John, Mary, Dean, Sam… are any of you who I am looking for?_

He found out foremost that Mary was dead; killed in a fire. Next, more difficult but there, the information that John was declared deceased as well. Finally, he found the criminal records of Dean and Sam. Here it got interesting. They were mass-murderers. Found dead not just once, but several different times. Arrested in many jails (sometimes even after they were supposed to be dead). In several of the places, the record had attempted to be deleted after, but with Mycroft's name, nothing was ever deleted.

Where was the connection to these two men and angels? Why had their name come up? Some more digging around revealed the name of the men mentioned in an article published by a small local newspaper along with the following sentence:

"_Sam and Dean Winchester, two journalists for the University, said they wanted to know more about the legends and lore surrounding angels. This is proof that the upcoming American generation still has interest in ancient stories."_

While the article only briefly mentioned them, it was enough to get the ball rolling. Sherlock then ran a quick search of the brother's through the American media system, again using Mycroft's ID for larger access. There was a staggering amount of information. It seemed the two of them meddled in every inhuman affair, every suspicious and strange activity happening in the entire country.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. There was one thing left to do: catch these men off guard and see if they really were related to "Castiel".

Who were the Winchesters?


	3. Chapter 3: Confronting Fears

_**A/N:**_ Please review, let me know how it's going so far! Thanks!

* * *

><p>The black Chevy Impala speeding down the road left behind the faint echo of music. Inside it, Sam glanced at Dean, slumped down in the car seat and snoring lightly. He was glad his brother was getting some sleep. He'd been worried sick about him since Cas had pulled that stupid disappearing act.<p>

Thinking about Cas was irritating to Sam. On one hand, he was pissed off Castiel couldn't _tell_ them he was going to stop appearing for the entire past month. On the other, he was worried something had happened to the angel.

But Sam's irritation was nothing compared to Dean's grief at losing his best friend. Again. If for no other reason, Sam wanted to find that damn angel and shake him and force him to apologize to Dean.

And this time, Dean was being stubborn too. He refused to call him, to use any spells, to even ask around about him. Sam recalled Dean saying "If he's dead, it's not like we can bring him back. And if he's just not coming around anymore, he probably doesn't want to." And he'd drop the topic and make that stupid hissy face. Sam wasn't sure which of them was more childish.

A muffled phone ring distracted his thoughts. The sound jerked Dean awake. Sam felt in his pocket, but the phone wasn't his. On similar inspection, Dean too came up empty handed.

"Check the glove compartment," Sam commanded.

Yawning, Dean opened the latch and found one of three phones in the compartment ringing and flashing. First, he reached for the flask of whiskey and took a swig. Second his attention zeroed in on the cell. "Whose phone is this?" Dean asked, still shaking sleep from his muddled mind, trying to decipher between Bobby, John, and Ellen Harvelle's phone.

"That's Dads phone," Sam frowned and held out his hand. Dean was trying to figure out the number when Sam reached over and snatched it out of his hands. Before Dean could protest, Sam was answering, "Hello?"

"Winchester?"

"Who's this?" Sam demanded.

"Ah, so it is one of you. It'll interest you to know I have some information on your… oh, let's say your _angel_ friend."

"Angel? You mean Cas? Who _IS_ this?" Sam turned wide-eyed to look at Dean, shrugging. All signs of sleep were gone from the others eyes, the flask forgotten; he stared intently at the phone.

"Oh, you've nicknamed him," the voice on the other end snorted in condescension.

"Gimme that!" Dean grunted, taking the phone back. He pressed it against his ear and spoke in low fast tones. "If you know anything about Castiel, tell me now. And if you hurt him, I swear I'll hunt you down and kill you."

"Kill me? Don't be ridiculous. You don't even know me."

"Oh, I can find out, you British son of a bitch!" Dean exclaimed. "Don't think for a minute that I can't!"

"I doubt it. I'll be calling back, thanks." And the line cut.

"What happened? Who was it?" Sam asked, eyes flicking from the road to Dean.

Completely ignoring him, Dean wildly flailed for his own phone and swiftly dialed a number. "Hello? Frank? Yeah, listen, do me a favor and trace this number. It's not American, I know, probably British or something. Find out for me, okay?" He read the number off his father's cell phone. "Thanks. Yeah, or I'll call you in a few."

When he pressed the end button, he stared at the phone for an extra unnecessary heartbeat, jaw tightening. "Sam, pull over," he said.

"What? Dean, we're on a highway."

"Pull over."

If Dean had yelled or looked at him, Sam felt he could fight him and try to rationalize through it. But the dead emotionless voice made Sam want to shiver. He parked to the side and was thankful there weren't any cars behind him. Nobody travelled at 3 in the morning through back highways in Nebraska.

Dean got out of the car. For a moment, Sam debated following him out. Then he heard a scream. His reflexes kicked into gear, heartbeat racing. He pulled out the gun under his seat, threw open the door, and watched in dumbstruck astonishment at Dean screaming at the sky.

"You asshole! Why couldn't you just STAY WITH US? _WE WERE YOUR FUCKING FRIENDS! _We would've helped you, _but_ _you just HAD TO BE THE HERO! _Flying off to save the world like you're CLARK FUCKING KENT!" Dean's voice picked up a raw edge, getting throatier, but that only made him louder, "You were the greatest friend I had and YOU ABANDONED ME! YOU WOULDN'T HAVE DIED SWALLOWING YOUR PRIDE AND COMING TO US- _AND NOW YOU MIGHT WITHOUT US!"_

Sam quietly let himself back in the car. This was Dean's way of dealing with it. Dealing with the fear of losing someone. He'd tried to be strong and unaffected about the ordeal, and now he was plunged into dealing with Cas's disappearance with no warnings.

Dean might be his brother, but he couldn't pretend to understand the bond Dean and Cas shared. They were almost as close as brothers without all the creepy obligation crap that came with it. Sam would be jealous of the relationship if he didn't know this was how you ended up when it came to an end. Howling your anger at the clouds at three in the morning.

Dean's tirade ended with a wordless howl and then there was silence. Sam stayed in the car, toying with the gun in his long fingers, slipping the safety on and off, trying to listen for footsteps returning to the car.

The silence stretched longer. Sam got antsier. Finally, he went out.

Dean was sitting on the trunk, legs dangling over the rear bumper. His back was hunched, eyes closed, hands joined together, lips moving soundlessly…_was he praying?_

"Dean?" Sam hedged softly.

Dean glanced up. He looked broken.

"Sam. I lost him."

Even after so long, after years of living with his brother, Sam hadn't seen him vulnerable and emotional often. Now, he was like a puppet missing strings, like a child who had very suddenly realized how massive the world is and how small his role in it is. His entire life, Dean had taken care of Sam like an older brother should. And now he needed care. But not from Sam.

Still, Sam moved forward and joined Dean on the trunk. The car shifted with his additional weight. "We're gonna get him back, Dean. I promise. We've got a lead. C'mon man, you've held out so long. You can do this."

"When you died, I did everything I could to bring you back because I knew how. You were in Hell. I could talk to a crossroad demon and exchange places. And I did. It worked. But how do I deal with this? You're the only two people left in this world that I would give everything for. But for once I don't know how and I don't think it'll be enough." Dean's voice cracked. Anger was something he could use. Mourning, on the other hand, was not a familiar emotion.

Words aren't going to fix this, Sam realized. There wasn't anything he could say in that moment that would make this alright. That would make the hurt go away.

Luckily, Sam didn't have to say anything. Dean's phone was ringing. Neither reacted initially, then eventually Dean pulled it out of his pocket. Hope glimmered on his face. "It's Frank." Clearing his throat, Dean put the phone on speaker.

"Dean! I have really good news, even though you're a bastard for waking me up this early in the morning."

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry. You gonna get to the juicy bits?" Dean asked.

"Hold your horses. I traced the number back to the residence of a Molly Hooper in London. I did some research, she works in a morgue. Kind of reserved and quiet person from what I gather."

"That wasn't no Molly Hooper we talked to on the phone. It was a guy. I'm sure." Dean muttered.

"Wait- you said London?" Sam broke in.

"Sam? That you? Yeah. London. How'd you guys come across her number anyway?"

"Some asshole called us from it and said he knows something about Cas," filled in Dean.

"Your angel friend who went missing? Well, it could've been a boyfriend. And a stupid one at that, to call from a line unprotected and trackable." Frank snickered, and then went on, "I found her Facebook account. Address, phone number, photos, everything on here. Don't think she knows how to work any privacy settings. And she doesn't seem to have any boyfriends. Sam, I'm sending a link of it to your phone."

Sam jumped off the car and went to the driver's seat to get his phone. He returned and said, "Yeah, Frank. Got it."

He opened her photo album and showed Dean. He frowned at the ordinary-looking mousy brunette "Yeah, we didn't talk to Molly Hooper. I assure you."

"Right, well. This is as far as I can help you. You guys want more? I suggest you take the next flight to London. You might get some clues to who used her phone." Frank advised.

"Flight?" Dean's face turned deathly pale.

"Only way to get to London, kiddo. If you're serious about the angel guy."

"Yeah, we're serious." Dean replied gruffly. He didn't think anyone understood the immensity of his seriousness.

"Well, I can actually get you on some no-questions-asked, no-ID-taken flights straight there from the closest airport to you. Should I book 'em?" Frank asked.

"Can you do that, actually? We'd appreciate it." Sam said and gave the name of the closest international airport they'd passed 50 miles back. As he spoke, he studied Dean. His face expression seemed frozen between nervous, angry, and determined.

"Sam, I'm sending the boarding passes to your e-mail. You both owe me big. Next time you get your hands on some decent sums of money, I'm getting a cut. We clear? Now. If you guys are done, can I get some hard earned sleep?"

"Yeah, thanks Frank," Sam said goodbyes from both of their behalf and took the phone from Dean.

Dean unfroze. "We're getting on a plane?" he said, needing confirmation of the fact.

Sam couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, buddy. Plane."

"Plane." Dean repeated inanely.

"Time to face your fear."

"Haven't I faced enough of them?" Dean groaned, letting his head fall forward. He massaged his temples then suddenly stood with renewed motivation. "Okay, let's go get on that damn plane. For Cas."


	4. Chapter 4: You Know What's Not Healthy?

Molly Hooper wanted nothing more than to go home, collapse into bed, and watch telly until she fell asleep. Her feet hurt, back ached, and head pounded. After spending countless hours at the morgue doing autopsies and paperwork, she was ready for some bloody rest.

She had let Sherlock slip from her mind. He could surely handle himself for the next few hours while she recuperated. Probably wouldn't even notice she was there, actually.

Molly scrambled with the key, her eyes burning as she unlocked the door. She swung it open.

Sherlock sat in a chair facing the door. "Molly. I've made a mistake."

Molly stared at him in confusion. "You what?"

Sherlock stood up. In his hand was Molly's overnight bag. "You need to leave here, now."

"Leave? But this is my apartment." Molly struggled to comprehend what exactly was going on with whatever spare energy she had remaining.

"I understand that. But I'm afraid I made a very hasty and stupid decision, the consequence of which is that staying here any longer is no longer safe." Sherlock held out her bag. "I've packed your clothes, underclothes, and diary in here. You should leave now. Go somewhere safe to stay."

"Sherlock, stop! I don't get any of what you're saying! My _diary?_" She demanded and snatched the bag out of Sherlock's outstretched hands.

"Is that all you got out of anything I just said?" Sherlock inhaled sharply, closed his eyes, and said in a slow voice, "You need to leave here. It's no longer safe."

"I can't just leave! This is where I live! Where will I go?"

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock answered with calm.

Molly stood silently, clutching the bag. "You want me to go there? Where will you go?"

"I have a laboratory that's been standing abandoned for some time. It's perfect, for research and staying."

"So why can't I go with you there?"

A number of justifiable reasons ran through Sherlock's brain, ranging from 'You won't find the rats pleasant company,' to 'You're only going to get in my way,' and even 'The damp might make you sick,' but he finally settled on "There's only one bed, and I'm afraid it'll be in use."

Molly hesitated. She would hate herself if Sherlock managed to succeed cowing her into leaving this apartment. On the other hand, if he was telling her to leave, surely he would have a good reason. After all, he himself was leaving. There wouldn't be a reason he just wanted to kick her out for fun. "Can I do my own packing? It'll only take a few minutes."

Sherlock stared at her; he'd expected as much of a woman whose underpants were organized by color. He nodded curtly. "I thought I had everything, but okay. Feel more than welcome to do your own packing in the next five minutes."

As she went into her room, Molly called out, "Can you maybe explain to me again exactly what the problem is? Why I'm being kicked out of my apartment?"

"Someone knows I'm here. And here I must confess that in the rush of the case and solving a mystery, I used your phone to make a call that I should've made at a payphone fifty miles north of here. Regardless, it is done. The location is compromised. And if the people we're dealing with are anything I think they are, we should give them absolutely no chance to corner us. You can't even go to work! They'll know you're at the morgue! Do you understand?"

"You're saying someone knows you're alive?" Molly asked, shocked.

"Not _me_ as Sherlock. More just a person who used this number to call someone he shouldn't have, Molly do you understand?" Sherlock's voice took on a frustrated tone. Molly quietly finished packing, just in time for Sherlock to come bounding through the door, beckoning for her to hurry. "I know Mrs. Hudson and John won't turn you away."

"Yeah… I know," she quietly agreed.

"MOLLY." The sharp syllables made her look up into Sherlock's eyes. Her heart irrationally skipped a beat as he lowered his face to hers to speak with emphasis. "You must understand that you can_not _come back here, it will _not_ be safe. Treat your apartment like a crime scene. If you absolutely must return, do so at a discreet time and bring someone with you, proper protection. Do not go to the morgue. Yes? And do _not let anyone know I was here._"

Molly nodded. "I think I know what you're asking," she said. "And I'll do my best."

They both walked out together, Sherlock locking up after them. He accompanied her to the corner of Baker Street, until 221B was in plain view. Sherlock glanced up at with wistfulness at the window then sighed.

"And this is where we must part. I will thank you again for all your help, Molly. You've been a friend- better than any others in this regard. Take care." Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Just as he had done at the Christmas party so long ago. And then he was striding off into the dark, illuminated only by paltry yellow streetlights.

Molly watched him go, wondering what had just happened and if she should just disregard Sherlock and go back to her apartment. But even she knew that couldn't be done. Sherlock had warned her for a reason. Instead, she trudged to the door and knocked.

And knocked again. Again.

She began to worry there was no one at home and a dread began to form her mind. What was she going to do now? Where would she go? Back to work? Sherlock had told her not to go there.

The door pulled inward and Molly found herself looking at a bedraggled John Watson. She frowned and took an involuntary step back.

He reeked of alcohol. His jumper seemed to have collected an assortment of spills and crumbs that no one had bothered to attend to. The shadow of a beard was on John's usually groomed cheeks. He squinted to make her out better.

"Molly? Molly Hooper?" He asked. His voice was hoarse and rusty.

"John! Err, yes, it's Molly. I needed a place to stay and I was wondering if you and Mrs. Hudson would mind me being around for a bit." She tried to smile but all she could really think was '_Sherlock, what have you done to this poor man?'_

"Mrs. Hudson's not in," John said, looking puzzled. "Her sister's in the hospital, overnight."

"Oh? Um, well, could I stay anyway?"

"Why?" He didn't seem rude or offensive, just genuinely curious why Molly was at his porch.

Molly scrambled for an excuse, wishing she'd asked Sherlock for one. "My apartment's been broken into!" She finally blurted.

"Have you called Lestrade?"

"I, er, I was going to. But nothing's missing. I just won't feel safe there tonight," she elaborated.

John peered behind her into the street for a minute, then swung the door open wider and stood aside to let her in. She lifted her bag and followed John limping up the set of stairs. The apartment was a massive mess, books and clothes lying everywhere, mugs of tea and coffee piled around the leg of every table, take out boxes accumulated on dirty dishes, bottles of vodka and whiskey spilling what little remained on the floor.

"Excuse the mess," John muttered as a half-hearted apology.

"It's no problem," Molly replied. She couldn't imagine how anyone could live like this. But who was she to judge? One of the biggest burdens on his chest had been lifted for her: She knew he was alive. John did not.

"There's an extra room near the back. You can sleep there," he said to her.

"John, are you okay? You seem very out of it," Molly observed as he grasped his old walking cane and hobbled to the kitchen.

"I'm fine!" he barked, almost harshly. Then, "Sorry. I'm very tired. Would you like tea? I'm completely forgetting my manners. Mrs. Hudson would be disappointed in me." He slurred a bit, as if he was still slightly intoxicated.

"Please, don't fret on my behalf. I really only need a place to sleep. Erm, do you possibly have any dinner? I left in a hurry when I saw my lock had been picked," she explained quickly.

John shrugged. "Might be something in the fridge, if you can be arsed to check."

Molly sort of hopped around a pile of dirty dishes to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There were a few slices of cheese, a bottle of strawberry jam, half a loaf of bread, expired milk, and a jar with two pickles in it. She reached for the cheese and bread and fixed two cold but functional sandwiches.

With his back still turned, John said, "You know they found Moriarty dead on the building? Shot himself, apparently."

"Yeah, I read about it in the papers," Molly said, sitting on the sofa and remembering she had dated the man.

"He was fucking clever, I'll give him that. Took away the only thing we might want from him: his life. Couldn't even leave me with the satisfaction of revenge."

Molly had no answer. "Care for one?" She asked him, offering one of the sandwiches when he joined her on the sofa.

"Nah, I already had dinner," he answered.

"Really? What?" Her voice took on a challenging tangent.

"Beer has carbs in it, did you know? We survived off it in Afghanistan some weeks."

"John, you've got to eat something. This isn't healthy for you," she consoled gently, pushing the plate closer to him.

"You know what's not healthy? Jumping off a building," John stood from the sofa very suddenly and disappeared into what Molly remembered used to be Sherlock's room.

She sat there alone for a moment before finishing her sandwich, washing down the last few bites with water. Fatigue pressed her to eventually seek out the other room. There was a comforter, untouched, on the neatly made bed. _So John sleeps in Sherlock's bed now?_ Molly mused.

She set her bag on the corner of the bed and gingerly stretched out on the sheets. A troubled sleep took her after just a few minutes.

* * *

><p>"Come now, dear! Just one more bite! For me?" A loud female voice interrupted Molly's slumber.<p>

She jerked awake and had the disorienting sensation of not knowing where she was. Last night's events took their time reaching her. When they finally did, she sighed and rose off the bed. She quietly opened the door and surveyed the scene.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting across from John in the freshly cleaned apartment, encouraging him to finish breakfast (which looked too advanced for his cooking- clearly Mrs. Hudson's masterpiece). He had changed into a bathrobe, shaved, and looked miserably hungover. When Molly stepped out of the room, Mrs. Hudson looked surprised.

"Oh, John! You didn't tell me you had a guest over last night? A girl in particular, too! I didn't think you were too interested in them."

John himself looked surprised. "I thought you were a lager dream!" He accused, pointing a finger at Molly, then he turned defensively to Mrs. Hudson, "And I'm not gay!"

Molly could see the sly sort of look on Mrs. Hudson's face and quickly acknowledged her first, "No, Mrs. Hudson, it's really not like that! I'm one of Sherlock's friends-" John snorted at the word use "-and I just need a place to stay because someone broke into my apartment."

"Oh, you poor dear! Why don't you have some breakfast, too! I'll just go down and bring up another plate." She said, grinning. "And you finish up, John! Hear me?"

John waved her off. Both watched her descend the stairs.

"Thank you so much for letting me stay, John. I never got to express my gratitude last night," Molly quickly blabbed in the silence.

He looked up at her. He looked forlorn and just… _sad_. And even when he spoke, all his words were tinged with that bit of sadness. "You knew him, too. How do you deal with it? When someone so extraordinary walks in and changes your life, how do you handle the sudden pain?"

"It's difficult, John. You've got to keep busy, to remember what he would have wanted."

"What did he want?" John asked quietly.

"Well, he wouldn't have liked you lying around and getting drunk every night, would he?"

"He wouldn't have even cared. Too busy experimenting, I'd imagine," for the first time since that terrible day, Molly saw the ghost of a smile on John's lips.

"You've got to keep going for him, yeah?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "That's what Mrs. Hudson said. Forced me to shower. Clean." Even this didn't seem to do any good, though.

_He might have a fake smile on his face, but he's still sad. _Molly realized. She desperately wished she could tell him that he wasn't gone. But fearful of the consequences, she kept her mouth shut. She didn't want to disappoint Sherlock. Instead, she asked "Can I take a shower?"

"Yeah, definitely," he pointed moodily toward the bathroom door.

The rest of the day wasn't particularly fun. John Watson was, at best, an okay host and very mediocre company. He sat and watched telly all day. Mrs. Hudson would bring them food and scold John to do something, then she'd mention how pretty Molly was, wink and leave. John rang someone up to tell them he couldn't come to the clinic today; his foot infection had gotten much worse- an obvious lie. He watched more telly. Around evening, he stared morosely at a violin, running his fingers up and down the strings and holding back tears. He talked to the skull on the mantle.

Molly went to sleep that night, at least thankful that being "mediocre company" meant John didn't ask her any questions or contribute any details of his life to her. She couldn't stand to hear how unhappy he felt over Sherlock, who was still bloody alive. She wondered if what he was doing was any less cruel than what Moriarty had done.

The next morning looked to be a repeat of the same thing. This time, Molly had to ring the morgue and tell them her house had been broken into and she didn't think she could make it in.

"They stole everything? Your papers, your jewelry, your laptop?" Her boss asked.

"Oh, no, that's all fine," she said, nervous about lying.

"Well, at least file the paperwork I send you," said her boss, "and we won't consider you gone. Cheers!" And he hung up.

Now, Molly was starting to get apprehensive. Her laptop was at her apartment. Sherlock had told her not to go there… unless she brought John with her.

Molly was initially hesitant to ask him. But when she saw him curled up on the couch, a cold cup of tea on the table, she enthusiastically said, "John! Shower up; we're going out for a stroll to my apartment!"

"Thought it'd been broken into," he said absently, staring at a smiley spray painted on the wallpaper.

"Doesn't mean it's stopped existing. I'll just be in and out! Need to get my laptop is all. And you could make do with the fresh air." It occurred to her that she'd had a similar conversation with Sherlock.

John groaned and made excuses but eventually he showered and changed and stood outside the door, cane in hand and distrust clear on his face as he examined the street. Molly smiled. Sherlock would be proud of her.

The walk was short and John was starting to look more normal by the time they got to her apartment. Molly opened the door and sighed with relief as she walked into her familiar quarters. But something was instantly off.

Before she had a chance to scream or John had a chance to react, someone had hit John over the head and a napkin of chloroform was held over Molly's mouth. Just before she lost consciousness, she saw one of the men leaning over her and whispering, "Hello, Molly Hooper. Found you."


	5. Chapter 5: Defiance & Disappointment

Sam found himself feeling slightly bad for Molly. First they waited jetlagged in a car outside her apartment for her to appear. When she didn't they broke in. She had nothing of value, nothing interesting, nothing risqué in her apartment. Her laptop history was wiped clean. Eventually, they had to agree that it was boring.

Molly was completely ordinary.

After Dean had finished all the food in her apartment, they had sat down to wait for one more day. And there she had appeared. With a man- and was he the one who had called them?

Whether he was or wasn't had yet to be determined. Meanwhile, both were tied to chairs in the living room. They'd already been drenched with holy water, touched with silver, scratched on the arm to insure they had human blood, and everything else the Winchesters could think of. And they were taking their sweet time waking up. This was where Sam had taken time to study their victim and suspect.

Molly Hooper, with the plain mousy brown hair falling over her normal face, wearing nondescript clothing. Even unconscious slumped down, she projected the air of someone so hopelessly unexciting that Sam wondered why they were even spending time bothering with her.

But what fascinated him was the vulnerability she had. Just before he'd chloroformed her (there wasn't enough for the man and they agreed it'd be less cruel to hit the woman), she had turned to look at him in utter shock and even a bit of amazement. Like she was saying, _No, this is not what I signed up for in life and it shouldn't be happening._

Even as he stared at her, Molly stirred and began mumbling under her breath.

Dean was up in a flash, leaning forward to yank Molly's chin up and take off the scrap of cloth they used as a gag. "Hey, sunshine. You up?" He asked.

Fear made her eyes spike up. "Who are you? What're you doing here?" There was fear in her trembling voice. "What've you done to John!" She demanded, wriggling against the tight rope binding her.

"Dean, ease off," Sam said, though he doubted his words would have any effect on his brother. Dean really wanted to find Cas. "So, his name is John? Is he the one who called us?"

"C-called you? Nobody called you! I don't even know you!" She cried shrilly.

"_Someone_ called us up from _your_ phone, Miss Hooper. So you had better 'fess up!" Dean told her sharply. "We're not messing around!" He pulled out his fake FBI badge and flashed it in her face. "See this? We're the American badass authority you should be terrified to mess with!"

Sam knew it was a power play to get Molly more intimidated, but she seemed entirely unfazed by the ID. Well, other than the already frantic worry apparent on her face, nothing else changed. "Don't be afraid," Sam quickly interjected. "If you have nothing to hide, you'll be fine."

"John's bleeding," she said quietly. When Sam turned to look, he saw that the man had a cut over his eyebrow that was indeed dripping blood over his face. "Let me take care of him," she added in the same small tone.

"Hell, no. Not until we find out who called us. Was it him!" Dean yelled into her face. He pulled out his gun from a holster and made a big show of cocking it.

She flinched, then retorted very fast and with high pitched intensity, "No, it wasn't! He's my boyfriend and we've been gone on vacation for the past week! We haven't even been home! _We didn't call you!"_

"BULLSHIT!" Dean screamed, waving the gun around some more. "Where's your suitcase? Where'd you go? You didn't go anywhere!"

Molly pressed her lips together and slumped. Sam's eyes narrowed. She had been lying. Molly had been trying to cover someone. Who? The man, John? Or an entirely different person?

All the loud noises woke John up. He too struggled against the rope and looked up bewildered.

"John! Are you okay?" Molly gasped.

"Molly?" He asked, disoriented. "What in fucking hell's going on? Let me go!" He grunted, straining. When no one reacted, his face flushed red with rage. But not fear, no, just an incredible and powerful anger. The blood on his face gave him the expression of a wild animal.

"Wait- you're not him." Dean said, taken aback as he heard his voice.

"What? Get me out of these ropes! I'm a bloody army Captain!" John roared.

Sam moved closer to Dean and lowered his voice. "Dean- that's not the guy on the phone. And Molly's lying. Something's up."

Dean gave him one of those _duh_ looks. "Where's the guy that called us?" Dean returned his attention to Molly.

"I don't know. I wasn't here," she insisted.

"I demand to know what's happening!" John interjected.

"Okay, _jolly old chap,_" Dean snapped, sick of hearing their British accents. Sam raised an eyebrow at the mockery as Dean continued "We received a very threatening call from this number and if the little lady won't tell us who called, we'll have to force the information from her."

"Her apartment was broken into! It could've been anyone in London who knows how to pick locks!"

"Wait, wait- what?" Sam moved forward. "No, her lock wasn't picked. And I know because I _did_ pick it. So now, Molly, why don't you tell us what's really going on. All of us, because clearly you've been keeping John there in the dark as well."

Molly hesitated. "Okay, fine. I went to your apartment, John, because I wanted to make sure you were okay. With the alcoholism and all. But I didn't want to look like a nosy spy or annoy you so I lied about the apartment being broken into. I was missing _him_. And I couldn't think of anyone else who missed him but you. I don't know if any calls were made from my apartment while I was gone, and I don't care. I really don't! Happy?" She asked through clenched teeth.

Dean and Sam exchanged looks. It seemed they'd stumbled onto a personal touchy issue between the two. Who was "him"? But as far as stories went, hers seemed to check out. It was unlikely, but it explained everything.

"Regroup!" Dean said, pointing his gun toward Molly's room. Sam followed him into the bedroom.

"Okay, I think Molly's got something to say that she's not being honest about," Sam said straight off.

"And I think the other guy just kind of got dragged into her messy little story," Dean agreed.

"Maybe we should just get out of here. Let them think we're gone; trail them for a while until they slip up. Eventually they'll lead us to Cas. Right?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at him sideways. "No way. Not letting them go until I find out what's going on," he said, shaking his head. He hadn't come across the Atlantic Ocean to abandon whatever lead they'd found now. "I say we wait them out. Separate them. Let them think and stew over whatever they're hiding, then hit them hard again in a few hours."

"Is that smart?" Sam asked. "What about them needing to eat? To use the bathroom."

"I don't know, man! We'll keep an eye on them while they go. Let's keep the guy in the living room, lock the girl in the spare room. She's more likely to crack in the dark." Dean strategized. Sam shrugged. It seemed Dean was intent on running this operation, and his brother hesitated to interfere.

They returned to the living room, where Molly was apologizing to John for spying on him, "…even though I have to admit, I was right in seeing you. Just because he's gone doesn't mean all hope is gone. You weren't doing very well before I came along."

"And now, neither of you are going to do well!" Dean declared,

Sam neared Molly, and she began to shake her head. "No, no! Leave me alone, I haven't done anything!"

"You leave her alone, you filthy brutes!" John's skin chafed against his bonds as he tried to free himself.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you, okay?" Sam said calmly. He tipped Molly's chair back to make it easier to drag. As the weightless sensation hit, he whispered, "I'm sorry," so softly in her ear that she thought she had imagined it. He slipped her gag back on.

Then she was being pulled to the other room, her chair making a horrendous scraping sound and leaving scratches on the hardwood floor that would never come out, all the while screaming so vehemently through her gag that they could understand "Stop it! LET ME GO!"

Eventually, Sam shut her door and returned back to Molly's bedroom with Dean, trying to ignore her muffled cries. He looked angry. This visit had been his desperate plea for answers, yet it had turned up very little in the form of clues. "You wanna try summoning him?" Dean asked.

"We're gonna have to go get materials. I brought some books, obviously. And it shouldn't harm him now, either, since we're on the same continent." Sam listed the reasons. They had earlier read on the ride to the airport that summoning an angel across massive distances without their conscious knowledge or permission could strongly damage their vessel.

"I don't want to leave them here alone, and I don't want either of _us_ alone either," said Dean. "There's still someone out there who's threatening us and Cas."

Sam checked the time. It was late afternoon. Both were feeling jetlagged. It was early morning in America. Regardless, the Winchesters were tired since they hadn't gotten any sleep in the past 48 hours. "Maybe we should take shifts and get some sleep. I'll go first." He mostly just wanted some time alone to talk with Molly. He was strangely drawn to her.

Rubbing his eyes, Dean nodded. "Fine. Wake me up if _anything_ happens." He waited until Dean had closed his eyes and let himself relax against Molly's silk covers before Sam let himself out of the room, hinges silent.

He encountered John in the center of the living room. His head was down and he was muttering to himself, "I'm sorry, I tried to take care of her. I guess I've let myself go since you've been gone. But I can't help it, I miss you so much."

Sam started to say something until he noticed John's eyes were closed and nothing but his lips moved; he was sleep-talking. Sam slipped into Molly's room. She wasn't asleep. She glared at him defiantly as he came in. He loosened her gag.

"I'm not telling you anything!" were her first words.

"Shh, Dean's asleep!" Sam hissed. He was throwing in a bit of good-cop-bad-cop, or so he convinced himself as he took a seat on the worn couch in the spare room.

She looked surprised but did indeed quiet down. "Are you here to free me?" She asked.

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm just here to talk."

"To talk?" Molly demanded in derision. "You've tied me and my friend up, vandalized my apartment, accused me of ringing you strangers up… why is it so important that someone called you anyway?" She asked, and for a moment Sam saw a flash of alarm in her eyes. Was he imagining it? Had someone she knew done it?

_Keep her talking, _Sam told himself. "Look, someone's kidnapped our friend, Dean's best friend." It occurred to him that Molly and John had lost someone, too, recently. They'd been talking about it earlier. Exploiting that, Sam continued, "You may not know what that's like, Molly."

"No- I do," she answered. She hesitated and Sam didn't say anything. She seemed to be debating whether to go on or not. Finally she did. "I think you're looking in the wrong place for him. We haven't got anything to do with him."

Was she trying to give him a hint while pretending to play dumb? Or was she really unaware who had used her phone? She was a difficult woman to read. Looking at her naturally made Sam think surely a woman of her slight stooped stature wasn't incriminated in any dangerous affairs. But her innocent looks belied a deep perceptive mind. She may be slow, but only because she was in denial about what went on around her.

Sam sighed exaggeratedly. "Well, I won't be able to convince Dean of that. The only thing you and your friend can do is tough it out."

"Yeah, about John- could you guys go easy on him? He just lost someone very close to him. He's very… hurt and depressed about it. I don't want him in more shock."

"I'll try," Sam told her. "Well, I'll see you around, Molly Hooper. Try not to piss Dean off."

As he opened the door, he heard Molly say, "You're right."

He turned, "What? I'm sorry?"

"You're right. I may _not_ know what it feels like to lose someone. But I know John does. He does…" she trailed off, lost in her own thoughts. Suddenly, Molly sniffled and a tear slid down her face.

Sam considered going back in to comfort her but she looked like she would rather be left alone in her grief. Besides, he didn't have anything to offer. He left.

* * *

><p>Dean was shaking him awake. "I think I heard something!" He was whispering urgently.<p>

Sam jerked upright. Dean already had his gun in his hands, aiming it toward the window where it was pitch black. Sam realized he had slept into the night. He pulled out his own gun and asked, "What'd you hear?"

"Sounded like someone knocking into trash cans. Might be a false alarm, but I'm not taking the chance. Not when someone's hunting for us." Dean said.

Sam strained to hear in the dark. A dog somewhere on the street howled. He got off the bed and held out his free hand toward the curtain. It was about three feet away. He glanced at Dean and nodded expectantly; the signal that he was going for it.

Dean returned the nod. Before Sam could reach the curtain, it prematurely flung to the side and a hand bearing a gun appeared.

"Drop your weapons. Or I'll shoot, and _don't_ make the mistake of thinking I'm joking." The voice was distorted, the man had a thick blue scarf wrapped tightly around the bottom half of his face, coat collar upturned. They could only make out his thick mop of curly dark hair and piercing blue eyes in the streetlamps.

"And don't think _we_ won't either," Dean growled in return.

"There are two of you, Dean Winchester, which means one of you is expendable to me. I will not hesitate to aim for Sam's heart." The gun aimed straight toward Sam.

Sam froze. His eyes widened as he looked at Dean's face registering the same emotion. This man knew their names? Even though his gun was trained at the other man's head, now Sam held up both of his hands. "Okay, don't shoot, we're not gonna shoot. Let's put our weapons down and talk." He enunciated, slowly dropping his weapon to the floor.

"You too, and _hurry!"_ The man demanded.

"Okay, buddy, here I go." Dean said and lowered his own gun. "Your turn."

"No. I keep my gun, but I promise I won't shoot you… fatally. If you continue listening to me." He leaned forward and whipped his scarf off so his liquid voice was smooth and unhindered. "I was the man who called you."

Dean's jaw muscle twitched as he ached to pick up his gun. But it was too late. Now he was defenseless at the mercy of the stranger he most hated in the world at the moment. His stupid voice, always echoing in Dean's head, now pervaded the air around him. "Where's Cas? How'd you find us?"

"I don't know where 'Cas' is. The man claimed to be an angel and accosted me in a dark alley. He said he needed my help. He knew about me. He did impossible things." The man paused for a moment, as if to reconsider the facts. "He mentioned something about your last name when he disappeared. So I found the two of you and called. He hasn't appeared since."

"You found us just by our last names?" Sam asked, gaping.

"Obviously. It wasn't very difficult either. You've left a trail in the media with all your dying and killing," the man gave a short laugh. He suddenly lowered his gun and tucked it into a pocket. "Can we talk normally now. Castiel needs my help, for reasons that I don't understand. _You _need my help, and I yours. So let's be useful."

Dean looked at him distrustfully but Sam quickly said, "Yeah, of course. Dean and I will be glad to help, if it helps us find Cas. But how do we know we can trust you?"

"Trust me? I don't expect you to _trust_ me." The man made it clear that trust was not a concept he was fond of, or even familiar with. "But I assure you I'm not lying. And as proof of it, I will leave my gun here to go talk to my friend John, outside in the living room, and let the two of you make up your own mind. Clear?" he spoke slowly, as if he expected them to forget.

"Clear." Sam said swiftly in reconciliation. The man laid down his gun on the duvet and went to the door.

"Wait- what's your name?" Dean's voice came out angry and abrupt.

"Sherlock."


	6. Chapter 6: Catching Up

John had nothing left.

There was a time when he _had_ nothing, but he was given everything then had it all snatched back. Perhaps if he had never known what it was like to have a best friend, a cozy home, an interesting job, adventures of all sorts, excitement and devotion, thought and love- perhaps then he wouldn't miss it so much.

Perhaps then, the death of Sherlock wouldn't have mattered. It would just be an article he read in the papers. He'd shrug, put it down, and go about doing his normal boring things in a normal boring life. He'd never know how brilliant the man who hated the deerstalker cap was.

But now, Sherlock had meant everything to him. He was almost a God in John Watson's eyes. A God who had picked him up, dusted him off, and proceeded to show him all the greatest wonders of the conceivable world. But Gods are immortal. Gods aren't supposed to die.

And to John, Sherlock Holmes hadn't died. He was there, tucked away in the crevices of 221B Baker Street, in the nooks and crannies of dark alleys, in the cells of John's brain, in every bottle of vodka, down the battlefield streets of London, each time he passed by 22 North Umberland street and saw the Italian café… Sherlock was _everywhere. _John had learned to keep his notions to himself, otherwise people started looking at him odd.

He couldn't convince the media that Sherlock was a true hero; he couldn't convince them there was no way Sherlock had committed suicide. He couldn't even convince himself sometimes that Sherlock was actually dead. But he had knelt in the street and took the man's pulse. He had watched him hit the ground. And he could do nothing to stop it.

In the end, John Watson was a failure. He was only good for standing in stunned silence while his best friend went through a crisis bad enough to throw himself off a building. _Why didn't he come to me?_ John wondered, but then he had stopped asking when Sherlock began appearing in the only place he could: inside John's head.

Even now, tied up and barely conscious, Sherlock was whispering to John, "How could you be so careless? You were in the military and you let two young American morons get the upper hand over you?"

"I'm sorry," John replied dismally, feeling like he had let everyone down: Sherlock, Molly, Ms. Hudson, himself.

"Yes, well, now Molly's going to get the worst of it." Sherlock hissed from over his shoulder.

For a moment, John felt scared. Sherlock wouldn't talk to him like that. He was his best friend and comrade. He would be more than understanding that sometimes mistakes happened; that sometimes you tried your hardest and nothing good came of it. But then, John sank back into stupor and answered, "I tried to take care of her. I guess I've let myself go since you've been gone."

"Then take yourself back!" Sherlock encouraged. His eyes glittered and shone out of the darkness madly in Molly Hooper's dark living room. John could see clearly, even though his head was down and eyes were closed. "Fight!" Sherlock added enthusiastically.

John sighed. He could never live up to the expectations of Sherlock. He would always be a disappointment. "But I can't help it, I miss you so much." John Watson held back tears.

Sherlock clucked his tongue, dismissive and demeaning. He disappeared. John stared straight ahead where the apparition had been standing and willed it to appear again. Sometimes, it would if he wanted it hard enough. He wanted to scream in the darkness, _I believed you! You couldn't have lied to me! Come back!_ This time Sherlock remained gone.

_Probably because there's so much going on in my mind right now,_ John mused. Even though he and Molly were seemingly trapped in a life-threatening situation, John found himself genuinely not caring very much. There was nothing he could do or say. He felt like his mental capacity had already been flicked off, the only thing the American's had done was also restrict his physical capacity.

Something about Molly and a mysterious phone-call and a missing friend? John couldn't even keep track of the mess. He just wanted to go home, have a stiff drink, and call in sick to work again. Instead, he was stuck sitting in this uncomfortable chair that was already starting to make his bum hurt.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there. The shadows got darker; eventually all light was gone. Sherlock didn't appear again. John did understand that they were probably hallucinations, but he found he had gotten quite addicted to them. They helped him get by with whatever living John could still manage.

Eventually, the door flew open and the Dean character stepped out of the room. He was saying to Sam, "I'll wake you up in a few," he shut the door. He spotted John staring at him.

"What're you looking at, Mr. Bean?" he demanded gruffly.

"I'm just not sure what the pair of you think I can possibly offer you." John said levelly.

"Information. And you may not have it, but Molly does." Dean responded.

"She's really just an innocent girl. She hardly even knows how to go to the shop and ask for change," John scoffed.

"She aint as cute and sweet as you think she is. Girl's got her secrets, buddy," snickered Dean. "Seems to me like you don't actually know your friend very well."

"She isn't directly my friend," John said, shrugging. "She's a friend of a friend."

"Oh? This is all very fascinating and all. But unless you're telling me what I want to know, I have a piss to take that seems a lot more interesting than this conversation," and Dean stalked off to the bathroom.

John gazed dismally after him. "What a rude bloke," he muttered to himself. He lifted his head and suddenly became aware of the sticky dried blood on his face. It was feeling uncomfortable. He waited until Dean returned and called, "Oye, mate, could you at least wipe my face?"

Dean grumbled but dug around the kitchen and brought a wet towel. He hastily scrubbed at the older man's face. "There, happy?"

The wound was rubbed again and John winced. It still stung. His skin was raw, but he doubted he'd get infection. "Yeah, thanks. I'm a doctor, you know."

"I don't care," Dean tossed back casually. He went back into the bedroom.

Alone again, John leaned back in the chair, trying to get as comfortable as he could. His ankles and wrists were already red from the skin breaking due to the ropes. Although it hurt his sensitive skin, he learned that moving them around prevented the skin from getting bloody.

He was rather used to being alone. He almost loathed public company now. Sometimes he'd help Lestrade out on a case where a doctor was required on short notice, but John returned immediately to his home. Ms. Hudson was the only woman he'd spoken to since the incident, excluding one of the doctors at the clinic and now Molly Hooper.

Sinking back into the semi-conscious state of sleep he'd been in earlier, he jerked awake at the sound of a dog. "Bloody fucking dog," muttered John. He shifted again but realized his blood circulation was reaching dangerously low levels at his arms and feet. And he had to eat. The last decent meal he'd had was over two days ago, the morning Ms. Hudson had brought him breakfast and Molly's existence had surprised him.

He heard low urgent voices coming from the room the Winchesters were in. John let his head down again and tried to make out their words. The thick door kept anything but muffled sounds. Suddenly, he heard the door open and a single word spoken in the one voice he never expected to hear:

"Sherlock."

John's head whipped up. There he was. Scarf around his neck, long black coat, shiny shoes, curly hair…

"Oh, god," John moaned, squeezing his eyes shut, "not bloody again."

Sherlock was taken aback, but he handled himself and said, "Hello, John. How are you?"

"Okay, no!" John glanced at the figure and shook his head, "Another hallucination? Really? You know, this entire thing is starting to get extremely overrated."

This was not how Sherlock was expecting to be treated. He was looking for shock, anger, joy, grief, possibly even denial. But not this. "I'm not a hallucination, John," he said.

"Oh, whatever. Fuck off." John snapped, closing his eyes again. A moment later, he felt long cold fingers probing along his forehead at the wound.

"You're hurt." Sherlock observed. A dark cloud passed over his face as he pushed back John's hair to better study it.

John flinched. He'd never been touched by a Sherlock apparition before. He opened his eyes slowly. Sherlock was so close to him, he could feel the man exhaling on his flesh, smell the musk of his skin. Still keeping his eyes on John's forehead, he pulled out a knife. Sherlock reached around and neatly sliced the ropes away from the chair.

"You're real." John breathed in astonishment.

Sherlock cut away all the ropes and grasped John's hand, pulling him upright. "Yes, John. I'm very real."

The sudden rush of blood to John's extremities was painful, and Sherlock was grinning beatifically. Almost unable to stand it, John's mouth gaped open like a fish.

Then the apartment spun around him and he was falling to the floor. Sherlock caught him just before he hit the ground.

* * *

><p>Sherlock (with his sleeve rolled up) and the Winchesters were standing together around a mirror, examining the scar on his arm. Molly Hooper was off to the side, quietly staring downwards and rubbing her wrists.<p>

Everything was so blurry. John Watson's head hurt. More accurately, it felt like a thousand atomic bombs going off in there.

_Is any of this real? A very accurate and detailed hallucination? Or is he truly alive?_ John got to his feet unsteadily. Sherlock caught his eye in the mirror and his face split into a wide smile.

"Ah, you're awake. I'm really looking forward to catching up with you!" He declared, starting toward the bed.

As soon as he was within reaching distance, John pulled back his arm and punched Sherlock in the face.

"Oof- ah, I see what's happening." Sherlock gasped. He straightened. "Getting it out of your system, are you?" He asked.

John lunged forward and Sherlock instinctively flinched. Instead of hitting him, John threw his arms around the taller man and hugged him tight. "I missed you so much! You fucking moron, how did you _dare_ to leave me? I fucking hate you! I love you! Oh god, you're back!" He babbled.

Unsure of the proper cue to respond, Sherlock let himself be rocked by John. The Winchesters stared at the spectacle at a loss for words. "Thank you, John, but we have company," he gently reminded John.

"Oh, they can bugger off!" John yelled, squeezing Sherlock. "You stupid old bastard, jumping off buildings! Which reminds me, how'd you do that?" He held Sherlock at arm's length, studying him. Under his pale cheek, a bruise was just beginning to form. For a moment, John felt guilty for causing that. But he figured Sherlock ought to walk around with something to remember him by, and how unfair he had treated John.

"Ah, John? I actually _did_ jump off," he said, his eyes burning with a sudden intensity. "Moriarty had set snipers on you. If I didn't, they'd shoot."

John's eyes widened and he whispered, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I… couldn't. You had to think the same as the newspapers."

"I never stopped believing in you," John's eyes lowered. He dropped his arms from Sherlock's shoulders and turned a few steps back. Sherlock watched him closely. "You didn't _trust _me, did you Sherlock? Probably thought 'John's just a stupid idiot, he'll mess my plan up.' Isn't that right?"

"What? Don't be _ridiculous_. Not at all!" Sherlock shook his head, suddenly realizing that for once he was on the other end of the spectrum. His cheeks burned red and he felt a welling of emotion: shame. Regret. Shaking them off, he said, "Look, I understand there's some resentment for my actions…"

"Resentment? Is that all you're going to call it?" John interrupted. Everything was such a mess. On one hand, there was no emotion that could compare with the magnificent joy he felt in knowing Sherlock was still alive. On the other, a deep sense of rejection enveloped him.

"What do you want? For me to apologize?" Sherlock retorted.

"And you think that'll make everything okay? No, Sherlock, I don't want your apologies. I want to know why you felt I wasn't good enough for the truth."

"Because letting you_,_ with all your mighty morals and ethics, think an innocent man killed himself would have been cruel of me," he answered simply.

"But you _didn't_ kill yourself and you let me go all this time thinking you had! That's not cruel in the Sherlock Holmes dictionary?" John demanded.

There was silence as everyone else in the room realized John didn't know yet. Molly cleared her throat, thinking she should say something, but she wasn't sure how. Even Sherlock hesitated, unsure how to tell John that the impossible had happened.

"Can I interrupt?" Dean asked slowly.

"No!" Sherlock snapped. He turned back to John and said carefully, "I don't think you fully understand what has happened here."

"So why don't you tell me, genius, since everything's always so obvious for you?"

"Well, since there isn't any other way to say it, I'll say it as it exactly happened. I jumped off the building and the last thing I remember is you screaming and running toward me. Then, I woke up in my grave and had to dig myself out."

"What? No, that's not right…" John said, confused.

"It is. I'm a zombie." Sherlock looked proud at his knowledge of the word while everyone else gave him a look.

John looked up for corroboration in the faces of Sam and Dean, of Molly (who tried to nod reassuringly). Finally, he managed one word: "How?"

"That would be our friend, Cas," started in Dean. Sherlock looked annoyed but for once didn't say anything. "Castiel, the angel."

John wanted to sit, he wanted a cup of tea. He wanted things to make sense again. "Angel? Why do you call him that? Because he's some sort of brilliant scientist?"

"No, because he's an angel," Sam added.

This apparently became too much for him to handle. He burst out laughing. "Bollocks!" He gasped, between fits of laughter. "An angel? Brought Sherlock back from the dead? I'll have to see it to believe it!" He howled.

"We're actually working on that. We need some materials before we summon him, though." Dean answered in a somber tone.

John's laughter slowly died away and he suddenly felt foolish. "You lot are serious about this, aren't you? And Sherlock, you believe it?"

"Do I have a choice, John? I'm not dead anymore, I met a strange man who could teleport, the Winchesters recognize the handprint on my arm… I've got to look at the _facts_, John. Facts don't lie. They don't change." Sherlock answered softly. He almost seemed in denial himself, trying to convince the rational part of his mind that this was all happening.

"Did Molly know?" John asked abruptly.

"Know what?" She asked from the couch.

"That Sherlock was alive?" John focused on her.

Again, an uncomfortable moment passed before Sherlock said, "I didn't want to put you in danger, John. You need to understand that. Not that I wanted to put you in danger, Molly, but I didn't think snipers would be watching you… John? Where are you going?"

John walked out of the bedroom and stopped at the front door to Molly's apartment. "I'm going home, Sherlock. I don't want to hear your silly excuses anymore. And I missed you terribly, but I think I just need some time. If you still had any heart left, you'd drop by and tell Ms. Hudson you're still alive."

Sherlock remembered suddenly Moriarty's words: _I'll burn the heart out of you._ Is that what had happened? He didn't have heart remaining for his friends? His best friend? The door clacked shut behind John and Sherlock stared at it without moving, hardly even breathing.

"No, no, _NO_!" Sherlock roared unexpectedly in anger.

Sam and Dean started as he ran to the door and flung it open, running behind John.

"Oh, dear," Molly muttered.

Outside, Sherlock caught up with John in the darkness. He grabbed his wrist and forced the man to stop. The streetlamp cast a halo around them. "You can't just leave me, John!"

"Yes, I can. _You_ just left_ me_. And that's your problem, Sherlock. You've always had this dream of being the lone rider, and running around rescuing the world all on your own. But when you're off being Superman, you forget you're leaving people behind. People that want to help you!"

"I wanted to help you! I was protecting you!"

"At the cost of your life? Why would you think I would rather be protected while my best friend and partner was dead? Sherlock, just admit you're a selfish bastard!" John suddenly realized he was screaming. Though the street outside Molly's apartment was empty, he felt self-conscious.

Sherlock's eyes flickered from the dark apartment and back to John. He said tightly, "I'm sorry I'm a selfish bastard. But don't leave me now, I need you."

John's jaw dropped. "You actually admitted it. And apologized. And agreed you needed me. Now we're actually getting somewhere," he said in wonder.

"Come back to the apartment with me then. We're alright now," Sherlock gestured to the entryway frantically, nervous about being exposed out here in the open.

"No, we're not. This isn't over. But it's a start and I'll come back with you." John acquiesced. Then he leapt forward and hugged Sherlock again, squeezing as hard as he can. "It's been a bloody nightmare without you, I haven't paid Ms. Hudson, Lestrade's neck deep in unsolved cases, Anderson's ego could single handedly suffocate Ireland… and I missed you. Like hell."

In spite of himself, Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle and say "I missed you, too, and I hope you can understand that I was only trying to make things better."

"I don't think I'll ever understand. And I still haven't forgiven you. But I'm glad you're back."

"Oh, by the way, I think we'll have to keep an eye on that Dean fellow. He's an alcoholic."

"Is he? How do you..."

"The way his gaze kept lingering on the empty wine bottles Molly has, the fact that he emptied them himself, the flask in his coat pocket, little bottles he must have stolen from the plane, and remember I told you about Harry's phone? Dean has the same thing going on with his cell. Also, there was a stain on his shirt that I'm rather certain smelled like vodka. You mean it wasn't obvious to you?"

"It isn't obvious to anyone! See, we'll have to work on that. Anyway, I think I might be a little alcoholic myself."

"You think?"

The two men looked at each other as they walked to the apartment, backs hunched against the wind, smiling at each other.

Sherlock was alive. _Perhaps_, thought John Watson,_ he is a God. _


	7. Chapter 7: Odd Things Happening

Castiel examined the last remaining body in the house. It was always difficult to kill one of his family members, whether they were demons or humans or angels. He knew they were his kin. Feeling the energy leave their body felt like he had somehow diminished as well.

Now he ran his fingers over the brand on the flesh of the demons. A tattoo that could never be removed and meant the demon could not evacuate the body under any circumstances. Underneath the tattoo were two small pinpricks. There were things happening. And Castiel needed to find out what.

Demon possessions had increased massively in the European continent.

Even as he stood there with the limp corpse in his arms, the lights in the domicile flickered and a man dressed in an impeccable black suit appeared.

"Crowley!" Castiel exclaimed, letting the body slump to the floor as he straightened. "What have you done to this family?"

"I haven't done anything, you stupid monkey, and you should know that by now," Crowley returned with a calm disposition. "I never do anything. These people, they make their own choices. I merely provide them with the means to achieve what they want."

Cas glared at the Prince of Hell, walking around the room, examining tapestry like he was at an Open House. "You've done this! Your demons were inhabiting their bodies."

"Their _alive_ bodies, Castiel. You killed them," Crowley stated simply.

Hesitating for only a brief moment, Castiel continued, "I will find out what you're up to. There must be a pattern, I just have to figure it out. And I will stop it."

"No, you won't," Crowley drawled, "because you can't."

Cas glared at Crowley. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, sorry, was I not supposed to know about that? About your little problem? Well, I do know about it. And I know exactly how powerless you are now. So stop wasting your time with the big leagues, Castiel. Your 15 minutes are up."

Castiel moved forward in anger, withdrawing his celestial angel blade for attack.

Crowley teleported to just behind the angel, who turned in bemusement and rage. "Ah, ah, don't be silly, Castiel. You can't afford to hurt yourself. Not now, anyway. I'm much stronger than you. I could tear the flesh from the bones of your vessel and feed them to my hellhounds."

At the sound of the word, two massive black hellhounds appeared on either side of Crowley. Their growls filled the room, hot acidic saliva falling from their jowls and burning through carpet. Crowley took leisurely steps forward, the hellhounds flanking him closely. Their eyes fixed on Castiel.

"How did you find me?" Cas demanded, not intimidated in the least by the mutts. "I have sigils in Enochian to protect me. Even the Crossroads King cannot ignore the laws."

"Your power is so diminished, my dear Castiel, that those signs couldn't even keep a third class demon away from you. Besides, you've been on my list. I have unfinished business with you. Nobody tricks fucking Purgatory away from Crowley," the demon snarled, his expression turned sour and his eyes flicked through a multitude of colors.

Cas was surprised and took a step back. How was he doing that? Demons had eyes that changed depending on their class. If Crowley's eyes could turn from black to red to white… that meant-

"Yes, Castiel. As I'm well sure you've realized by now, things have gone haywire in Heaven without any archangels. But change is much widespread than just that. With Lucifer in the cage, things have also been different in Hell. I'm not the prince anymore…" Crowley leaned forward to whisper in Castiel's ear, "I'm the king."

"That isn't possible," Castiel murmured.

Crowley laughed and strolled back to the sofa, covered with the blood of the family Castiel had been forced to murder. "It's not _just_ possible, it's happening. And now it's time for you to pay me for all the shit you and the Winchesters have put me through." He leaned back into the couch and whistled a simple two tone at his hellhounds.

Red eyes gleaming, black sleek coats, the dogs powerful haunches- all enabled them to leap at Castiel with deadly force and grace, howling. Cas sprung into action, thwarting the first one with his arm, thrusting the blade forward with the other arm. The hellhound slashed through Castiel's clothing and left a bloody scratch on his shoulder. Castiel's blade grazed over the first hellhound's back.

It whimpered and hunkered back. The second hellhound gathered itself and attacked Cas again. This time Cas was better prepared. He grasped the dog's muzzle in his left hand, forcing the razor sharp teeth to snap shut, and sank the blade deep into the hellhound's furry chest.

The hellhound's loud keening tapered off as it disintegrated.

"NO!" Crowley yelled. "These are my best bred hellhounds directly from Cerberus's lineage! How fucking dare you!" He pointed at the remaining hellhound and snapped his fingers. It viciously reared up and bounded forward, paws forward with deadly claws outstretched.

At that instant, Castiel felt a familiar warmth in his vessel and the strong feeling that followed of loss of control; he was being handled by some unknown puppeteer. For an instant, he thought of Jimmy Novak, trapped in this body. He couldn't move or speak or even materialize. His angel form began to show involuntarily.

Crowley was forced to avert his eyes and the hellhound dropped dead midstep.

Then Castiel was standing in the center of Molly Hooper's apartment, dripping blood on her hardwood floor.

"Cas! What the fuck happened to you?" Dean moved forward and took the angel's arm over one shoulder, helping him stand. "Are you okay? Did _we_ make you bleed?" He asked in mortification. "Can I get some water or something here?"

"Oh- sorry. I'll just…" Molly gestured and went to fill a basin.

"Dean Winchester? You _summoned_ me here?" Castiel asked as Dean helped him limp to the sofa. Cas glanced around him in disbelief. Sam stood in a corner, an ancient book in his hand that he had chanted from. Red paint formed a summoning circle on the floor. And on the other wall- there was Sherlock Holmes, the man Castiel needed, and a shorter man who seemed to be in shock.

The shorter man now shook himself and instinctively scurried forward. "I'm a doctor; I think I can take care of this!" He said, an air of professionalism enveloping him. A lifetime of having to heal wounds of men in the heat of battle had made it a reflex to handle blood as soon as he saw it, even if he had just viewed the laws of physics breaking before his eyes.

"Who are you?" Castiel asked distrustfully. After his very recent encounter with Crowley, he wasn't sure if he wanted to let a stranger take care of him.

"John Watson," he answered without looking up. He was stripping away the trench coat, Dean helping. The shirt under was so ripped and in tatters that it was already hanging off Castiel's body.

When Molly brought the water basin with a washcloth and gauze, John began washing the wound with care. Dean crowded around him, trying to get a better view. "Is he going to be okay?" He asked frantically.

"Okay, look!" John snapped, "I'm trying to do something about this man's arm, can you give me some space to breathe?"

"You can do what you damn well need to but don't dare fucking expect me to move back, buddy. Got that?" And for a moment, in Dean's eyes was the same crazed panic John had felt watching Sherlock crumpled on the street.

John nodded slowly and returned to the gash.

"I need to know what's going on here. Why are you _here_? You shouldn't be here!" Castiel's voice was urgent, his bright blue eyes staring intently at Dean.

"Cas, you kinda pulled a disappeared act on us, man. You didn't expect us to just sit back and let our friend be kidnapped or killed, did you?" Sam chimed in.

"It isn't safe here, Sam. You don't know what's going on," he said with little emotion, though his gaze flickered briefly to Dean.

"So why don't you fill us in?" Dean asked in frustration.

Cas sat silently on the sofa while John finished his examination and grimly declared, "That's going to need stitches. Molly, have you got a first aid kit?"

"Wait- Cas, why don't you just do your angel healing mumbo jumbo?" Dean asked.

"I… can't, Dean."

"Why not?"

"What angel healing?" John butt in.

"Castiel's an angel; he can do this thing where his vessel never gets hurt. And he can usually heal other people," Sam explained. Sherlock leaned forward, as if anxious for more details to this anomaly.

Everyone's attention was fixed on the angel, who seemed hesitant to clarify his plight. Finally, he spoke, "I can't get into Heaven."

His statement hung there, surprising the Winchesters and baffling the other three.

Dean broke the silence, "They kicked you out of your home?"

"Yes," Castiel confirmed, "and my energy has been slowly diminishing ever since."

"I think you'd better start at the beginning." Sam suggested.

"I began noticing odd things happening in London, unseasonal weather turbulence, electrical instability, chemical disturbances. It seemed an unusual amount of demons were cropping up in the area, so I came here to investigate." Castiel stopped talking for a minute, almost brooding.

"Okay, Cas, what was it?" Dean encouraged.

"You remember I once told you how angels know of every single prophet in our minds? It's part of the inherent information present in all angels. Every prophet has an angel tethered to them. And it seemed Heaven updated the list to add a new name that _I_ was meant to guard- especially now that all the archangels are otherwise unavailable," Cas recounted Michael and Lucifer were in the cage, he had killed Raphael, and Gabriel had been killed by Lucifer.

"Who's the new prophet?" asked Sam.

"Sherlock Holmes is the new prophet," Castiel gestured to the tall man standing in the shadows.

Sherlock started at the mention of his name and peered at the angel. "A prophet? I'm not a prophet, you must be mistaken," he said.

"I am _not_ mistaken," Castiel's voice rose an octave. "Heaven has added your name to the list of prophets and tethered me to you. When I discovered you were dead, I raised you- and since then, my contact with Heaven has ceased completely. I would've confronted you sooner but there were more pressing matters. Demon infestations."

Dean held up a hand, "You're telling me this guy is the new prophet?" he asked. Dean turned to Sherlock and continued, "Okay, what've you prophesized so far?"

"I haven't done anything, I don't know what your angel's talking about," insisted Sherlock. "However, I am willing to find out more about it, yes. This is indeed a mystery of supernatural proportions." He looked interested, eager even.

"Sherlock, have you ever noticed that when you're very determined to solve a case, it works out exactly the way you want it to?" Cas asked.

Sherlock straightened and said through clenched teeth, "Are you suggesting my cases are all corrupt?"

"No, no, that's not possible. I've seen him solve cases; he does it properly," John jumped in.

Castiel didn't say anything. He looked down at his wound and frowned.

Sam noticed the look and sprang into action, "Can we finish this later? He's clearly in pain! Molly, where's the first aid kit?"

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed and scampered off to fetch it.

"Was this our fault?" Dean asked, pointing at the wound.

"Not at all. I ran into… an old enemy."

"Older than the Leviathans?" Dean scoffed.

Cas paused as Molly returned. She handed the kit to John, who arranged the sterilized material- needle and medical thread. John looked up at Castiel and warned, "This is going to hurt. I'd suggest you take a stiff drink, but I don't suppose your friend left any alcohol in the apartment."

Dean looked chagrined but Cas said, "I'd need the equivalent of an entire liquor store before the numbing effects of alcohol distort my thinking to the point of anesthesia. Dean, this was the work of Crowley's hellhounds."

"Crowley's back?" Sam looked amazed. "He told us he'd stay away after we helped get rid of the Leviathans. He promised he'd keep his demons of the street!"

Cas shrugged. "Such an arrangement is useless to him, especially with his newfound powers as the king of hell."

Nobody reacted. Nobody even moved except John, who positioned the needle carefully to Castiel's flesh. "Ready?" John spoke. He hadn't fully grasped the full weight of his patient's words, so intent was he on threading the needle and preparing to stitch the wound.

Castiel grunted. In the next moment, the needle was piercing through the frayed ends of Castiel's skin and pulled them closer. Cas gasped in pain, the first time his vessel's physical frailty proving a weak point. He grasped Dean's hands and squeezed.

Dean winced, "Cas, buddy, you gotta hold on!" He urged, fighting the impulse to ask questions about Crowley.

Sherlock held no such qualms, however. "What do you mean, king of Hell? Obviously, my mythology knowledge is extremely weak, but from what little I do recall, isn't that the Devil? Lucifer?"

"It isn't mythology!" Cas retorted.

"Oye, stay still for a minute!" John snapped. He looked over his shoulder and gave Sherlock a look. "Save your interrogation for when the man's patched up!"

"I'll fill Sherlock in," Sam volunteered. "You guys can stay here and, err, watch over Cas. We can go in Molly's room to give you guys some peace."

"Much appreciated," John answered distractedly.

Sam and Sherlock headed toward the room. Molly followed after them, leaving John, Dean, and Cas alone.

"Cas, why didn't you come to us? Why didn't you tell us?" Dean asked, his voice hoarse. Castiel was supposed to be the invulnerable angel. He wasn't supposed to disappear without a trace and then finally show up bleeding bearing awful news. This wasn't how the world worked. Castiel cleaned the mess, he didn't become part of one.

Cas's knuckles were white where he gripped Dean's hand, not realizing this was how much physical pain actually hurt when experienced without Heaven's backup. "Dean, I didn't want to put you in danger. I thought I could handle it. And by the time I started getting into serious trouble here, my vessel was getting weak and I couldn't risk communication that could be corrupted or tracked back to you."

"We could have managed! We'd much rather fight by your side without doing much good then be sheltered and doing nothing at all!" His hand was beginning to ache, but he clenched his teeth and kept talking, "You need to trust us, okay? We've been through a lot of shit, but we've been through it _together_."

Castel again reverted to silence. Dean shook his head in frustration. Cas could be a child sometimes. An extremely powerful, petulant child who wasn't above using the silent treatment.

"There, that's done." John broke in a moment later, taping over the gauze and leaning back. "It'll need to be changed, of course, and I don't think we have the proper medical supplies…" he trailed off, realizing Dean and Castiel were locked in some kind of staring competition. He cleared his throat but that hardly changed anything. Finally, he got up and left.

Dean took a deep breath. "You know what, Cas? I'm done babysitting you. When you've figured out what you should do, let me know."

"I don't know what you want me to do now, Dean. I don't have any power left, I can hardly use my own body, I have no contact remaining with the other angels or heaven, and something very wrong is happening on Earth. What do _you_ want from me now?"

"Forget it!" Dean growled.

Castiel watched him stomp to the front door of the apartment, open the door, and slam it shut behind him. Exhaustion was setting into the angel's vessel, his eyes were getting heavy. The shockingly fierce pain from the hellhounds claws was making it difficult to interpret his own thoughts.

And even though Dean had told him to "forget it", Cas knew the man was very, very mad. That was never a good thing.


	8. Chapter 8: Emotions & Experiments

Back to the laptop. More research. Sherlock's eyes burned. His throat was parched and there were faint growls occasionally coming from his stomach. But Sherlock had read the entire Bible, both Testaments. He was now halfway through "Paradise Lost." It was nearly night again; almost 24 hours passed since he had been reunited with John.

If you could count it a reunion.

Dean had disappeared shortly after the angel man had arrived. _Rather like a huffy and moody teenager_, thought Sherlock. And to fetch him, Sam and John had run off afterward. They were still out and it had been a couple of hours. Even Molly had been getting antsy and left.

Sherlock had to admit that he quite liked Sam. The man was very straight to the point, he knew his lore and information about all sorts of creatures very well, and he showed a certain amount of quiet respect for everyone around him. Some of his scars had drawn Sherlock's attention but he had refrained from asking questions.

There was a particularly tantalizing one that Sam was transfixed to on his palm; it seemed to be made by a flat and sharp edge, probably glass. From the surrounding flesh, Sherlock could tell that its healing had been slow and interrupted. Sam would often subconsciously run his thumb over it, hard enough to even flinch sometimes- especially when recounting stories of high tension. Emotional value attached to the scar, then.

And Sherlock couldn't help but admire some parts of Sam simply through similar association. He had been addicted to demon blood at some point in his life, so terrible that his withdrawal had been painful until the angel had stepped in. Sherlock's sympathy stemmed from his own ex-addiction to cocaine. Memories of the substance pervaded Sherlock mind like a haze. A truly tantalizing drug.

A creak from Molly's door alerted Sherlock. He swiftly and noiselessly got to his feet from the dining table chair he'd been on and prepared his stance to attack or defend. Instead, the weakened angel made his way out of the doorway.

He stared at Sherlock for a minute before nodding his head. Castiel hobbled to the couch and collapsed onto it. He grimly ran his hands over the dressed wound and turned to look up at Sherlock. Neither spoke, social conventions and inhibitions lost on both men.

Finally, Castiel remembered the Winchesters trying to teach him manners and decided to put the knowledge to use. "Hello, prophet."

"Right, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. Why am I a prophet?"

"Why am I an angel? Why are the Winchesters human? Why is anyone anything at all?"

"Okay, fair enough. But what do I do? None of the other prophets in the Bible resemble me in the least." Sherlock said, drawing on his very newfound knowledge of the book.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Not yet, anyway." Cas thought back to Chuck and said, "Every prophet is different. Divine, yes. Extremely intelligent, each in their own way, yes. And worthy of respect. For which reason, I apologize for our first meeting. I was… frustrated."

"No need," shrugged Sherlock. "I've decided that I think I believe the lot of you. None of you three are lying. All your facts and figures check out. So unless you're all wrong but really truly believe your own madness, there is a chance it's all happening. As uncomfortable as it makes me."

"Do not think I am any more comfortable than you. We still cannot trust you. When I first met you, I tried to search you for a soul but you ran and I didn't bother to pursue you. And now I am too weak to know," Castiel looked ashamed at the fact.

"Why would you think I haven't got a _soul_?" Sherlock asked.

"You were in Hell when I rescued you. Sam Winchester was brought back from Hell and he didn't have a soul. However, when Dean rose, he was fully intact. We're still not entirely sure how it works but it is possible you have a soul and it is possible you don't. I won't know unless I check and I can't."

"Schrödinger's cat, am I?" Sherlock mused, a half smile over his lips. Then it vanished. "Why was I in Hell?"

Castiel shrugged, "Several reasons. Your apathy and general failure to feel compassion for all humans, barring your friends. Inability to feel regret and guilt upon discovering many of your mistakes. The strong views you carry, leading to atheism and blasphemy. But even all those could be forgiven if it wasn't for your cause of death. Suicide."

"But I did it to save my friends!"

"I agree, but that's not how it works. My personal apologies to you," offered Castiel.

Sherlock was surprised how deeply this knowledge was affecting him even though he had never considered the religious viewpoint. Now that he knew it was real, however, he couldn't stop from wanting to know he had succeeded spiritually as well. Hell clearly meant he failed. "So I was thrown into Hell for saving the lives of three other people?" Sherlock clarified.

"Yes, you were."

"But that's hardly fair," Sherlock frowned. He didn't like the way this system worked.

"No, it is not."

"And all you're going to do about it is apologize? No compensation or change of policy?"

"Yes. Consider yourself lucky that at least you do not remember what Hell is like. Some other risen didn't have it so convenient."

"The Winchesters. Yes, Sam told me about it," he said and for a moment, gratefulness washed over him. Listening to some of the horrors Sam had described that he and Dean had gone through sounded positively gruesome. Yet some part of Sherlock could not help but be scientifically curious how the entire system of Hell and Heaven worked, and what it was like having suffered through one of those. Eventually, his curiosity won over. "What's Hell like?"

Castiel thought for a moment. "Your very worst feeling magnified a thousand fold, all experienced under torture and misery. What is the worst feeling you have encountered in the world?"

"I don't pay any heed to such things as paltry as _feelings._ They're not concrete; they're rather purposeless if anything. Why waste time on them?"

"Even if you choose to not pay attention to feelings, they still do exist. Angels were created to ignore feelings but I have discovered it is impossible for me, especially not when I live amongst people I cannot help but care for. So, Sherlock, you must feel. And you must have a worst feeling."

"And if I don't?" he countered.

"Then you lie to me."

Sherlock stopped and closed his eyes. _The worst feeling in the world? This is childish. Why am I sitting here talking to an imaginary man who's going to convince me I was in a scientifically impossible place? Okay, worst feeling. Surely an emotion like this would stem from my own selfishness. It would have to be a time when I was more deeply disappointed in myself than anyone else could have been. Even more than John. Ahh…_

"My best friend thought I was dead. I had to watch him grieve over me. Having to trick an honest and brave man, watching him break down and knowing it was my fault… yes. That would be the worst emotion. The worst thing anyone could ever feel." Sherlcok confirmed.

Castiel turned to look intently at Sherlock. "But what if you didn't have an option? What if you _knew_ you were only staying away from your best friend for his interests?"

"Of course that's the only reason I was staying away! That doesn't make it any less wrong, does it? It doesn't make all the hurt go away." Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh. You're speaking of yourself, aren't you? Clever angel! You've hurt your best friend, Dean Winchester."

"He's upset with me because I didn't seek out his help. I tried to handle things on my own," Castiel confessed.

"Someone told me, 'When you're off being Superman, you forget you're leaving people behind. People that want to help you.' I must say, it's one of the greatest things I could have heard to understand how selfish I was being. Perhaps you can use it to change your perspective on your friends."

"Who's this 'Superman'?"

"He's a fictional character who saves people. Oh, never mind. The point is, you have to be selfless to fix things."

"But _how_ do I fix it? What does Dean want now? I want to make him happy."

Through the meager light reflected out of the laptop, Sherlock could see Castiel's eyes shining. "If only I knew how to fix it, I wouldn't be in this mess, would I?" He asked in a snarky tone.

"Then who knows how to fix it?"

"I've never been good with the emotional things and figuring out what people desire to be happy. I could hardly keep up with the Woman half the time. How would I know what our hurt best friends want?" Sherlock dismissed the matter, turning back to the laptop. He raised an eyebrow. "But perhaps someone on the internet does."

"Ah, yes, the internet," Castiel remarked, getting off the couch and joining Sherlock's side to peer at the screen. "Sam Winchester told me it was a good thing."

"Good thing? It's a _great_ thing, one of the most dynamic developments of mankind. It practically raised me. Some days, I'm almost embarrassed I didn't invent it myself." Sherlock rambled busily, his fingers posing the question to Google: _What do men want?_

Sherlock rifled through a few results, unsure of the results he was getting. Castiel practically breathed down Sherlock's neck in an attempt to read off the screen.

"General consensus seems to suggest establishing a physical relationship will lead to higher satisfaction in a friendship…" Sherlock murmured, still clicking on more sites that only seemed to corroborate with his initial statement.

"Physical relationship?" Castiel questioned. He thought back to an instance with the Winchesters a few years ago when he had stumbled onto pornography. He reworded, "Sex?"

"Sex," confirmed Sherlock.

The details in the video seemed blurry to Castiel and he could hardly remember his kiss with Meg so long ago, so he asked, "How do you do that?"

Eyes still on the webpages, still looking through more options, Sherlock returned distractedly, "I'm not entirely certain yet."

Castiel frowned. "Aren't you human, prophet? Don't you know?"

Sherlock looked up, managing to look offended. "Of course I do! …but only in theory."

"Find out, then," he urged, feeling anxious that they might have found a solution and were now wasting time. "You need to look for pornography," he added when Sherlock didn't make any move.

"I know about that! John's got plenty of it. But there's a specific type we're looking for. No females…" Sherlock typed in the appropriate phrase and was surprised at the massive number of hits he received. "Seems like there's an entire industry dedicated to this." He clicked the first link.

Nearly instantly, the video began to play. Both angel and detective stared entranced at the screen in silence. There were two young men on the screen who were helping undress each other between playful kisses. The voyeurs were aware of kissing; Castiel had done it before with Meg and Sherlock had watched John kiss several girls.

The music increased in intensity when both were fully naked; the video progressed to fellatio. Sherlock didn't seem to quite approve of it, taken slightly aback by how fervently both men were going about it. They pulled apart momentarily to lube up and adjusted stance. "Messy, isn't it? And noisy," he muttered. "Although noise _is_ a primary communication device between humans."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, "Who's recording them?"

"I don't know, perhaps the person paid to record them. Perhaps the person who prefers watching them. Oof, that looks painful."

"Then why do they seem to be enjoying it?"

"Hm, well. There's always the chance the prostate is stimulated, leading to a release of serotonin and helping achieve orgasm quicker. Especially the way they're doing it, the ventral glans is roused- a major erogenous zone. Actually, it's quite ingenious. I can certainly see the appeal. Pity it never crossed my line of work. It would make for an interesting experiment."

Nothing about leading a conversation of this nature seemed wrong or unusual to Sherlock and Castiel. They remained as impassive and observant as if viewing Van Gogh for aesthetic pleasure, even mentally taking notes.

"Shall we give it a go, then?" Sherlock asked expectantly, grinning. His white teeth glimmered eerily in the dark as he stood up from the chair.

The angel peered up at him in confusion. "Give _what_ a 'go'?"

"The experimenting! You know, _this_!" Sherlock gestured to the screen.

"Oh." Cas gazed at the screen for a moment longer. "We can try," he agreed.

"Right!" Sherlock looked excited, conducting an organic investigation. He licked his lips in anticipation and said, "Tilt your head about 45 degrees to the left- no, your left, yes! Precisely there- no stop, now! Stay right there. Ready?"

"Yes," Castiel nodded.

"No, no. Don't _move_ your head now. It was in the perfect place! Here, I'll fix it," he snapped, taking Castiel's face between his long fingers and steadying it at an angle. Both men were of nearly equal height, Sherlock perhaps half an inch more so. Yet he was the one who leaned in.

There was a heartbeat of hovering before Sherlock gingerly pressed his lips against Castiel. His palms could feel the stubble on Cas's cheeks, fingertips edging at his hairline. He savored the sensation, so many clusters of nerve endings at his lips being caressed by the smooth pressure of Castiel's soft fleshy skin. Sherlock's eyes closed.

They held the position for just a brief moment. Sensitivity detected the increase in force almost subconsciously, the slightest hint of movement or expression apparent in the warmth; Castiel was smiling into the kiss.

The front door opened and Molly walked in holding grocery bags. The angel and detective jumped apart instinctively and abruptly from one another, both breathing heavily.

Molly's eyes widened. "Oh, God! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" She cried, taking a step back into the doorway but unable to avert her eyes from the sight.

Porn still played on the Sherlock's laptop, projecting erotic moans and soft music until he reached forward and slammed the screen downward. "Molly! You're back!" Sherlock said, his voice higher than usual. Instantly after saying it, he thought, _what a brilliant thing to say, you moron._

"I really didn't mean to walk in on that!" Molly shrilly proclaimed, throwing down the bag of groceries on the rug and looking wretched.

"Walk in on what?" Castiel asked, the intimate significance of kissing lost on his angel background.

"_That!"_ Molly considered elaborating but embarrassment won out and instead she glanced down and declared, "I forgot something- er, bread. No, milk-umm. Ah! Wine!" And in a rush, she was back out the door, letting it slam behind her.

"Why was she so uncomfortable?"

"I don't know, Castiel. People are often uncomfortable with experiments they don't understand."

"I thought it was going well," Cas muttered and reached up to touch his reddening lips, yearning for the body heat again.

"As did I. Perhaps we can continue at a later time. Anyway, I've got to get back to reading now. Lots of material to get through. And as much as I want to please John, I imagine there might be slightly more important things to cover."

Castiel looked much more professional suddenly, focused more on the divine than experimenting. The more detached he was from Heaven, the more his mind tended to lose attention. The more human he became, more prone to distractions and feelings. "Yes, prophet. We need to find out what's been going on with the disturbances in London. I'm sure it all fits a pattern."

Sherlock nodded and returned to his seat. As anxious as he was to record what he'd just dubbed as _Kissing Trial #1,_ there was another thought gnawing at his brain. Castiel had said, 'Your very worst feeling magnified a thousand fold, all experienced under torture and misery.' He thought of John. He thought of disappointing John.

And Sherlock was glad he couldn't remember Hell.


	9. Chapter 9: A Dangerous City

Sam cursed silently, checking his phone again. Why couldn't Dean at least leave his phone's tracking on if he wanted to not worry his little brother? This was ridiculous. He could've sent a simple text, something like _I'm not dead or kidnapped, just need some time._

"I just can't believe he's still alive. I didn't want to leave him in the apartment alone- but he's with Molly. I suppose after everything, she's trustable. But I saw him jump off the building, you know. Didn't think he was ever going to be back. It's honestly a miracle," John briskly walked alongside Sam, trying to keep pace with his long legs and rambling.

Sam managed a grim smile and said, "Yeah, that happens a lot when you're dealing with stuff like angels and Heaven."

"So what happens now? Obviously that man really is an angel, unless you've devised an extremely clever hoax to trick Sherlock. And it's practically impossible to do that," John mused.

"Well, first I'm going to find Dean and give him a piece of my mind. I get that he's probably pissed off at Cas, but he can't just run off like this. How does that make him any fucking better than Castiel?" Sam fumed.

"Where do you think he would've gone?"

"Knowing him, probably off to get drunk some place."

"Speaking from personal experience, I know quite a bit about all the bars and liquor stores in London. We can start hitting them, one after another. See if he's there," suggested John.

Sam hesitated, "Should we be wandering around this dangerous city? I mean, Cas did say there were demon infestations and whatnot going around. Maybe we'd be better off waiting for him back at Molly's place."

"If you're going to call it a dangerous city, Sam, you also have to be willing to admit you're going to leave your brother alone in it. And I don't think it works that way."

He had to admit John had a point. So he agreed to try all the places John could think of in a close radius where one could get suitably drunk. It was only then that he noticed and asked, "Where's your cane? I thought you had a limp."

"Yes, I thought so too," and that was all he would say about that.

After two bars and a gas station, Sam finally asked, "What's Molly like?"

"Molly Hooper is a quiet and respectable woman. Infatuated with Sherlock."

"Oh? You mean she and him are… like, together or something?"

"Not at all!" John scoffed. "I don't think Sherlock is interested in being 'together' with anyone," John made air-quotations with his fingers. "He's always just kept to himself, you know. I thought I was his best friend, but if you made a list of all the things even I don't know about him, it'd stretch on forever. There's something about being so smart that's made him so bloody stupid with people. Careless, yeah?"

"Yeah. So, Molly's single, is she?"

If John had any of Sherlock's deduction abilities, he would have caught on immediately. But then again, if he had Sherlock's abilities, he would've figured out Sam's intentions from the start- increase in heartbeat, detectable flush on his cheeks, very faint stutter in his voice, glances he continually stole her way, and his tendency to ask her any superfluous and probably pointless questions he had. Instead, John answered, "Yeah, pretty sure. Last person I know she dated was Jim Moriarty. Fucking bastard. He's the reason Sherlock got into this mess."

Sam turned his head ever so slightly, noting the tendency John had to associate everything back to Sherlock. An incredibly deep friendship or did he share Molly's infatuation? "Where are we off to next?"

"There's another bar close by; but before that, I was wondering if you'd be okay with me stopping by my apartment? It's just in the next street. I need to let Ms. Hudson know I'm okay. Landlady. She worries, especially after Sherlock…" John trailed off, preferring to not finish the sentence.

"Oh, yeah. No problem," Sam said, trying not to show his increasing anxiety toward Dean.

They made their way to 221B Baker Street. John used his key to open the door while Sam leaned on the wall outside and waited. Just after the front door closed behind John, a sleek black car pulled up. Sam frowned and warily felt for his gun.

When the window rolled down, he found a pretty young brunette staring at him. She frowned and asked sharply, "Where's John?"

"Who's asking?" Sam retorted.

"Is he inside, then?"

"He may be; he may not be."

"And who are you?"

"No one important," even as he spoke, Sam realized they were getting nowhere with this verbal sparring. His confusion was increasing.

The woman turned to glance behind him as John stepped out of the apartment. John's eyes widened and his smile vanished. "Anthea?" he demanded. "What're you doing here?"

"You know why I'm here. Your presence is requested," she stated simply.

"But… I'm with a friend," John gestured toward Sam.

"He should feel welcome to join us, then. I'm sure there will be a certain amount of interest in meeting him as well," Anthea examined Sam and winked.

John sighed, troubled. But he opened the door readily enough and got in. He looked expectantly at Sam. "Well, c'mon. Dean can wait a while longer. We really haven't got a choice; it seems we have an appointment with the government."

Wondering what the hell they'd gotten involved in, Sam joined John in the backseat. Anthea was staring at her phone, busy texting and completely disregarding her two guests. "So where are we going now?" Sam asked.

"It's always different. You'll see."

"No, John, I _won't_ see. I want to know why we stopped… our mission and got into a random car for no apparent purpose."

John gave Anthea a meaningful look, then nodded to her phone. He shook his head.

Understanding the general gist, _she's talking to someone about us_, Sam busied himself staring out the car at the signs and street posts. At least he should remember how to get back if he fell into a tough spot.

The car stopped soon enough at a small abandoned and unfinished building. "I'll see you later," Anthea remarked without looking up from her phone.

As soon as both men had exited the car into the building, John started talking very fast, "We're going to meet a man who's incredibly smart and talented; he's more powerful than anyone we know; you really have to be careful. He's-"

"Mycroft Homes," said a voice silhouetted in the dark room. "Brother of Sherlock Holmes, no official job status. And you're Sam Winchester. Pleasure." The man held out his hand toward Sam, the other hand clutching an umbrella.

"How do you know my name?" Sam purposefully crossed his arms.

"If we're really going to ignore cordiality and manners, let's jump right into the fray, shall we?" the man said pleasantly enough. He turned to John, "He's alive, isn't he?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," John muttered.

"You're not a very good liar, John." Mycroft chuckled unexpectedly. "I don't know how he did it, but by God. If anyone _could _do it, he could. Really should've trusted him a bit more, he's my own flesh and blood after all."

John watched him gush with pride before asking, "How do you think that?"

"Someone was going through the American Persons Database, searching for the Winchester brothers. The only person I can think of capable and clever enough to hack both my ID and password is him. The possibility that it could be anyone else never even crossed my mind."

"Well, you're right. He's back."

Mycroft sighed in relief. Even the most fantastic minds have doubts in them. He suddenly looked years younger, a bit less angry and less official. "That son of a bitch- excuse me, mother," he said jovially.

"Don't you dare go harassing it or spoiling anything, Mycroft! If anyone can ruin Sherlock's mood, it's you- so leave him alone!"

"Oh, John, your domestic is showing. But anyway, how did he do it?"

"Can't tell you," John said, shaking his head. "Sorry. You shouldn't even know."

"Never mind, I'll figure it out." Mycroft returned his attention to Sam. "Ah, and the infamous Winchesters. You run around making a ruckus everywhere you go. No sense of damage control- but I suppose when you're good enough at the damaging bit, you don't have to be. Don't know what Sherlock's gotten mixed in now if it's to do with you two. But on behalf of the British government, I must thank you for two things: handling the Apocalypse very well and being indirectly responsible for the demise of Bela Talbot, who has been rather… wanted for certain crimes against the Royal Family."

"You _know_ about all of that?" Sam demanded, looking stricken.

"Know about it? We arrange for it half the time and cover up for it the other half. You think Torchwood is just sitting idle?" Mycroft rolled his eyes and continued, "I just wanted to confirm with my brother's dear friend of his return. But if you two need help with anything, we extend our welcome. You'll find the car outside."

Mycroft turned to leave, but John said quickly, "Actually, would you help us track down a phone? It's American."

The older Holmes brother frowned. "Who?"

John looked up at Sam, who clenched his teeth in frustration at having to take help from a stranger but answered, "My brother."

Now looking amused, Mycroft pulled out his phone and asked, "Pain in the arse, aren't they? Siblings? What's the number?"

"Wait, but his phone's turned off."

"Hardly an issue," Mycroft waved his umbrella and entered the number Sam ratted off. A moment later, he held out the phone so the screen faced the two men. "It's the pub across from the music shop on 23rd," he pointed out on the map.

"I know where. Cheers!" John said; he lightly touched Sam's hand and cocked his head toward the entrance. "And we should be off now. The longer you stand in front of Mycroft Holmes, the more he figures out about you."

"Is that right? Tell me, John, how's that hangover? And the foot infection?" Mycroft smirked.

A muscle in John's jaw twitched and his nostrils flared. "Let's _go_, Sam."

Mycroft chuckled. "Tell you gentlemen what- Anthea and the driver'll drop you off at the pub to apologize for any inconvenience. And John, don't mention this meeting to Sherlock. I mean it this time. When my brother's ready, he'll tell me he's alive."

"What makes you think that if _you _can catch my lies, Sherlock can't?"

"I'll leave that to you. Goodbye, John. Nice meeting you, Sam. Give Dean my regards," Mycroft said and turned away.

* * *

><p>Dean was the only patron in the pub, sitting in a corner booth and sulking in the darkest corner when Sam and John walked in.<p>

John peered at him and said, "Think you'd better handle him alone. I'll go to the bar."

Sam nodded and went to his brother. "Dean, get up. Let's go back to Molly's apartment. This entire thing is getting silly. Just be glad Cas is back, okay? Your theatrics ruin the occasion."

"My theatrics? I wasn't the one who disappeared and finally showed up bleeding like a stuck pig with news of new prophets and threats!" Dean growled. He gulped down his drink and started for another one. He spotted John. "What's that guy doing here?"

"Yeah, like I was gonna go around London on my own. Probably get lost. John helped me find you." Sam wondered if he should mention Mycroft but passed over it. _Another time. Dean has plenty of issues_.

"You let that random guy helped you?"

"Dean, 'that random guy' stitched Cas up. We kidnapped and kinda beat him up. Be glad he decided to help us. Besides, I kinda like having him around."

"What's there to like? He's obviously a douchebag."

"Not really," Sam frowned. "He's cool. Talk to him."

"No, thank you!" Dean quickly snapped. "I don't know why you bothered to even talk to that tool."

"Because he reminds me of Bobby!" Sam's response was just as sharp and fast.

Both Winchesters turned to examine the man. "Well, he does wear lots of plaid." Dean observed.

"Ordered a double shot of absinthe; alcoholic."

"Pretty mean hook; used to violence."

"Instantly went to Cas; quick reflexes; well under pressure."

"Ex-army; probably carries a gun around with him all the time."

"Pretty open-minded; took the entire angel thing rather well."

Dean shook his head suddenly. "He doesn't wear a cap. Where's the cap? Nope, he's not Bobby. And he never will be. Actually, how did you even make the comparison?"

Sam shrugged. "The point is, you need to come back."

"I don't need to anything, Sammy," Dean hissed the nickname mockingly.

"Quit calling me that. And even if you don't need to, I bet Cas needs you to."

He hit a sensitive issue. Dean sighed. "Fine. Get your pseudo-Bobby and blow this joint. No pretty girls here anyway."

Sam grinned and fetched John, who knocked back his drink in a single gulp and asked "Make up with Dean, then?" Sam agreed and the three men exited the pub together. With Dean there, John said, "I was talking to the bartender. Asked him if anything strange had been going on. He said it was funny I should ask because just last night they found an entire family murdered. All of them had weird tattoos and pinpricks on their neck. Like vampires."

"Nah, not vampires. They don't have traditional fangs like Dracula. They use all of their teeth." Dean corrected.

"Never mind, then. Anyway, police thinks it was some kind of cult suicide. They're keeping it very quiet because if the news gets out, citizens will be prone to mass hysteria. He only heard about it because his sister's on the force. Hm, but I bet I know someone who could tell us more about it..." John trailed off.

"Who?" Sam rose to the bait.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."


	10. Chapter 10: Detective

The coffee was bitter, doughnuts were stale, a message from his recent-ex-wife waited on the line, his wrist was sore from when he'd banged the cab door on it that morning, and there was a massive pile of paperwork on his desk. Lestrade was not having a good day at the Metropolitan Police Service. On top of all that, Chief Superintendent had called earlier and demanded to know how far the investigation on family suicides was going.

Frankly, it was going absolutely nowhere. And now he had to deal with _Americans._ The snobbiest of the lot.

Donovan had come in earlier, telling him two FBI agents were waiting for him at the front. Lestrade considered briefly putting it off but had decided in a small moment of motivation to get it over with. Motivation which had vanished just a few seconds later. But he rose from his chair and went out into one of the interrogation rooms booked for official foreign visitors.

Swinging open the door, he saw the backs of two men in sharp black suits already in their seats. He went to the opposite side of the room and smiled at them. "Yes, gentlemen, how may I help you?"

"You're Greg Lestrade?" the taller of the two men asked.

"I am. And you are?"

The two men flashed their IDs, pictures and faces matching up next to the big blue logo. "I'm Detective Dean Roger. This is my associate, Detective Sam Taylor. We're from the FBI," the shorter one continued talking.

"Yes, Donovan told me. What can I do for you lads?"

"Well, we're interested in certain aspects of the cult suicides. Is it safe to say you've been present at the scenes of crime?" Dean asked sharply.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize this was an international issue. Why is the FBI interested in the case? They're suicides."

"Suicides with no suicidal cause of death, correct? No poison was ingested, no cardiac problems, internal organs perfectly intact… our source tells us all of their throats were slashed with struggle and yet there is no trace of the murder weapon or possibility they did it to each other. Each vic- and there were four of them- were separated when the bodies were found, behind locked doors with no sign of forced entry and leaving absolutely no exit." Dean smirked. "Stop me when I'm wrong."

"Well, it's apparent the Americans have been doing their homework. Excuse me for being impolite, but I still don't see how the FBI should be involved." Lestrade had to admit, he was reluctant to give away the facts of his case, especially to anyone from Washington DC. Somewhere inside, he still had a glimmer of hope that if Sherlock could solve crimes like this, so could his team. Well, his team excluding Anderson.

"The FBI's interest was sparked from their tattoos. All four members of the family had the same marking on their flesh. And similar tattoos were found in murder-suicides in Kansas a few years back. And while we didn't make a big deal of it then, if this is really the same ritual being performed, all of us have to be on alert. We're not fucking around, Detective. So I'd appreciate your cooperation." Dean struggled to keep his voice under control. John and Sherlock hadn't mentioned what a hardass the detective could be.

Lestrade sighed and straightened, flexing his hurt wrist. If he was in it for good, he might as well play nice. Not much choice given there. "Yes, I was at the scene of crime. The family next door called us. They said they had seen shadows and very bright flickers of light from the house, screaming and -oddly enough, barking."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance and Sam took up the line of questioning, "Did anything seem very strange? Out of place? Like, it shouldn't've been there?"

"We did find ash in one of the upper story rooms. We believe the last murder occurred there of the father. The ash was scattered all around the floor along with long sharp scratches; we honestly can't tell what the origin of either might have been. And also, the floor was slightly scorched through in certain places. Like someone had dropped chemicals or something," Lestrade trailed off, noticing the two men were again giving each other _that look._

"What about smells?" Dean asked abruptly. "Anything strong?"

"A smell was definitely there… not sure what I would place it as, though."

"Sulfur?" Dean suggested.

"Yes! That's it!"

"We thought as much," Sam said, nodding seriously. "What about the post mortem? Turn up anything unusual?"

"I'd like to know myself. My favorite mortician, Molly Hooper, has conveniently called in sick and I'm not quite comfortable with believing anyone else's judgment."

Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "We have the authority to get her reinstated, no matter what her emergency."

"Oh, for God's sake! If she's sick, leave the girl alone. She's gone through enough as it is; having to do the autopsy of Sherlock and all." Lestrade grimaced. "We can get someone else."

"I'm afraid only the best will do. Detective, we're going to need to see all the data you have on the case, including pictures, names of neighbors, and access to the scene of crime," Dean used his best official authoritative voice.

Lestrade shook his head insistently, "You boys can't just come in here and start throwing your weight around!"

"Not even if we can help you solve this case?" Sam demanded.

"Oh…" Lestrade narrowed his eyes. Help again? Last time he'd taken help from someone, the man had ended up throwing himself off a building. But these guys were Feds. Even if Lestrade turned them down, they could go over his head and then he'd be forced two work with men he'd offended. And the case _was_ at a dead end. Eventually, he said, "My team will assist you with whatever you gentlemen need."

The Americans looked content. Lestrade stood and the men followed him to his office, where the file of the Cult Suicides (with capitalization status now) was lying on his desk almost mockingly. He held up a finger and smiled tightly while he made a copy of all the papers. Finishing, Lestrade handed the copied file over with his uninjured wrist and returned to his chair with the abandoned cup of shitty coffee.

The pair pored over every detail in the file, pointing out details in the pictures, underlining parts of the file, whispering urgently to one another. A while later, they gathered up the papers and the short one, Dean, said "Thank you for this, Detective Lestrade."

"Anytime. I'm afraid I have too much on my hands today, but I can take you around the family's flat tomorrow morning," Lestrade offered.

"That'll be fine." Dean agreed. "Out of curiosity, are you doing anything tonight? Sam and I have a proposition for you."

"Proposition?" Lestrade's eyes widened.

"Yeah, if you're up for it."

"I'm sorry, are you _coming on _to me?"

"What?" Dean looked taken aback.

"No! Not like that!" Sam broke in before the situation escalated. "We have a friend we'd like you to meet who would undoubtedly be interested in the case as well."

Lestrade looked slightly relieved. "You understand we can't discuss the case with civilians? And we can't have the press knowing details?"

Sam nodded, "Look, it's just someone we think you should meet."

This was turning out to be slightly more effort than Lestrade was used to committing to any extracurricular cause. But his curiosity was caught, and as a Detective, he followed his instinct. "I'll get off around 8, if you can wait that long."

"Certainly. We'll just be outside the building." Sam said, smiling.

Lestrade stared after them when they left. How very like Americans to be mysterious and subtle in all the wrong ways while being crass and brute in all the others. He rolled his eyes and returned to work, but the entire time it nagged at him. The way those two men kept looking at each other, they knew something. And the sulfur; Lestrade had initially dismissed it as a cooking disaster a day earlier or one of those smells people's houses tended to accumulate- how did that fit in?

Finally his shift was over. He clocked out and exited by the glass doors. The two men were already waiting outside (had they left at all?), talking to each other with a comfortable ease that only came by knowing someone for years. Lestrade felt for his gun and, assured by the knowledge that it was there, strode up to them.

Dean noticed him first. "Detective! Ready to go?"

"Where?" he asked warily.

"Just to a friend's house. We promise you it'll be very safe. We were concerned about talking openly inside your office because it's probably bugged," Dean shrugged.

"I'm sorry, talk about _what_? The Cult Suicides?"

"If you'll just follow us," Sam gestured to a cab waiting on the street corner.

"I'd like to know why before I follow you anywhere," Lestrade replied, crossing his arms over his chest. He was determined to outwait them; he had the patience.

Dean rolled his eyes in frustration and opened his mouth, but the taller one held up a hand to silence him. Sam lowered his voice and leaned closer. "Detective Lestrade, it's about… Sherlock."

Lestrade blinked. "_WHAT?"_ He couldn't help his voice from rising incredulously.

Taking advantage of the moment, Sam shamelessly grabbed the Detective's hand and dragged him forward toward the cab. He hardly resisted. His brain was still trying to make some kind of sense of the sentence. By the time he collected himself, he was sandwiched between Dean and Sam in the cab and Sam was giving the driver an address that sounded extremely familiar.

"That's Molly's address," he observed inanely.

"Hopefully, 'cause that's where we're going," Dean agreed.

"Molly Hooper's flat? What's there?" Lestrade found himself answered by silence. "Okay, you two. I'm the fucking Detective here and I'm demanding some answers! NOW!"

Sam cleared his throat and pointed ahead at the cabbie. "I think we'd better wait until a more opportune time."

"I think I can handle being overheard."

"Yeah, but we can't," Sam stared intently at the man until he inhaled deeply and looked away, tucked uncomfortably between the Americans. He shifted slightly, trying to get his hand in a place where he could easily withdraw his gun if the need arose. But it proved difficult considering how close they were bunched together. He realized he'd have to wait it out.

Eventually, they ended up before Molly's flat. Sam paid the cabbie and finally turned to acknowledge the Detective. "We've brought you here with a certain amount of trust; you were told to us to be someone we could put our faith in, someone we could rely on."

"Yes, yes, will you get to the point?"

"Please take this news calmly, Detective. Sherlock is alive."

Lestrade took a look at them and pronounced, "You're insane, the two of you. I can get you arrested for kidnap. Possibly more."

"We're not… oh jeez. You'll really have to see it to believe it," Sam muttered as Dean opened the door with his key. He followed him inside then turned back. "Come on. Just Molly's place. Your favorite mortician. No big deal, right?"

"Why would you say something like that?" Lestrade asked without moving. "Why are you bringing him into this?"

"Just come inside!" Dean snapped over his shoulder.

Frowning, Lestrade entered the darkened interior where Dean was unlocking the second door. It swung open. The first thing Lestrade saw was indeed his favorite mortician. His face broke into a relieved smile which swiftly dissipated when his eyes fell on the person sitting beside her, a cup of tea in his hands.

"Oh, my God," Lestrade breathed. "They told me but I couldn't believe them."

Sherlock smiled hospitably. "I see your divorce finally went through. Also, you probably need to get that sprained wrist looked at. It's going to start swelling soon if you don't."


	11. Chapter 11: Mighty Fools

**_A/N: Thank you all so much for reviewing! It's motivating and I'm grateful to each of you!_**

Sherlock was pacing. He would occasionally stop and make a self-satisfied humming noise or a disapproving sharp exhale. His long fingers would lock behind his back and he'd lean forward a little as a particular piece of information particularly caught his attention.

John studied him from the sofa. Not a photograph or apparition or memory. It was still so difficult to believe he was alive. Difficult and exalting. Whenever his mind wandered in the direction of doubt- _I'm hallucinating all of this-_ he'd instantly turn the thought process off. He just watched, enjoying the strong movements of Sherlock's limbs, his smooth skin with the blood pumping behind it, eyes so bright and studious; the very _healthiness _he exuded.

Finally, Sherlock turned to glare at him. "Stop _gawking _at me like that."

"Like what?" John asked indignantly. He'd thought he was being admiring and respectful.

"Like I'm a bloody circus animal. I had plenty of that at Uni, thank you very much."

"But look at you, Sherlock! Just look!"

"I look at myself in the mirror every morning when I shave. Still not grasping your point, John."

"You know I'm shit with words," John scoffed, looking away.

"You run a blog! With nothing but words!" Sherlock retorted. He fixed his gaze firmly at the other man. His voice came out surprisingly gentle, "John, what is it?"

"It's you," John murmured. He found his eyes brimming over with tears as he spoke. "You and your absolutely brilliant mind that can never shut off thinking. All your organs synchronizing. You walking around Molly's flat so gloriously _alive_ while I watched you fall off a building. Honestly, I still don't fully understand what this angel has done, but I will be grateful to him for as long as I live for returning you to life."

"You're crying," Sherlock observed timidly.

John let out a single syllable of laughter. "Yes, Sherlock. It's what people do sometimes when they have an excess of emotion."

"I know what crying is," Sherlock replied. "I just don't know why you're doing it. Aren't you happy?"

"I _am_ happy! I'm the happiest I've ever been. People cry from happiness sometimes. When they don't know how else to put their feelings into language, such as how unbelievably happy they are when their best friend comes back to them. You wouldn't get it. It's sentiment."

Sherlock moved forward then, sitting beside John on the sofa with a mischievous smile on his haughty face. "John, there's something I'd like to do, if you'll just keep yourself perfectly still. Like you said, it transcends language."

John froze, confused but expectant. Sherlock would usually have unusual requests to better comprehend the human body. John learned the best way to deal with the experiments was to go along with them. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips against Johns quickly. Both remained immobile, one out of obligation and one out of pure shock.

When the detective pulled away, John found his breath again and sputtered red-faced, "Sherlock, what're you doing! Really, I'm not gay!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Oh, well, thank god. Because that was starting to feel rather uncomfortable."

"That's because you didn't do it right," despite himself, John couldn't help but say. He had a certain amount of expertise in the area. He'd gone through his fair share of girlfriends, though he couldn't always make them stay.

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock questioned, "Then what is the right way?"

John knew he was straight; at least he knew he was straight before he'd met Sherlock. His friendship for the man was stronger than any other bond he'd created, with the possible exception of his sister. John loved Sherlock but he'd never considered the attraction sexual or physical. He loved him platonically, as the eccentric who would converse with a skull but refuse to talk to a living breathing person, as the detective who let the police take credit for a case as long as it was fully solved, as the genius who yearned for compliments on his intelligence and sulked when he didn't receive them, as the loner who dismissed the advances of men and women alike but was content to study their habits and lifestyle.

John _loved_ him, but he had never considered being _in love_ with Sherlock.

But now with a reckless abandon that bordered on intense relief, John pushed himself forward and kissed Sherlock. His lips moved expertly and effortlessly over Sherlock, parting the other man's mouth and reaching for his tongue. This was no experiment with Castiel. It wasn't an obligatory peck like Sherlock had been attempting. It was a kiss from a man who knew how to kiss.

Until that very moment, John hadn't realized how much he'd wanted to taste Sherlock Holmes. He was aware that Sherlock was good looking but hadn't noticed the feelings he cultivated so carefully blooming out of control. Perhaps it took almost losing him to encourage John to hold on a little more tightly. And he did tighten his hold now, deepening the kiss almost subconsciously.

John finally came up for air. He chuckled hoarsely, "Okay, maybe I am a little gay. Or maybe it's just you I fancy. Everyone turns into a fool when they really fancy someone," John abruptly shut up as he realized he was rambling giddily.

Sherlock had an unidentifiable expression on his face. His lack of reaction made John nervous. Did he like it? Did he hate it? Was he angry John hadn't asked him before leaping into the kiss?

"That's what kissing is like?" Sherlock asked.

_What have I done?_ John hesitated, "Yes."

"That was good," Sherlock's eyes were wide. "That was good," he repeated.

John couldn't stop the smile from spreading over his face. He again moved toward Sherlock, but Sherlock put both hands on his shoulders and said: "Molly. Castiel."

"Oh, right," John remembered they were both in the next room, giving Sherlock room to study up and prepare for the arrival of DI Lestrade. Sherlock had only let John in; he was used to his presence. It had originally been John's idea and Sherlock had wholeheartedly agreed to get Lestrade involved. They'd sent out the least conspicuous members, Sam and Dean, to fetch him. "How is this going to work?"

Sherlock misinterpreted the question and said, "Carefully. We'll need to convince Lestrade to help us in the case; we'll need to convince him Castiel is an angel; we'll need to convince him to give us full access to the house-"

"We'll have to convince him you're alive and innocent." John interjected.

"Oh, John," Sherlock looked amused. "Lestrade never doubted my innocence. He's a good citizen of the law and investigated every suspicion, but he didn't believe it himself."

"Because it obviously wasn't true," John sighed and brought his topic around again. "So what are _we_ now? I mean, that. What just happened."

Sherlock looked up, brow furrowed. "I don't think I'm entirely certain there are rules to it."

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Sherlock? John? I'm making tea. Would you like a cup?" Molly called.

"Yes, please," John answered.

"Why not?" was Sherlock's careless reply.

"Sherlock! Manners!" John scolded.

"Oh, bother. Yes, Molly, I would appreciate a cup of tea, thank you so much for asking!" Sherlock corrected in an exaggerated falsetto.

John rolled his eyes. "You can really be a prick," he muttered.

Sherlock grimaced. Pretenses. Societal expectations. He went to the door and threw it open. "Molly, I really would like a cup," he told her sincerely.

She looked vaguely pleased that Sherlock had dropped enough to ask her so openly. "Of course. Oh, I should let you know Lestrade gets off work around this time. They're probably on their way."

"Hm, so it would seem," Sherlock agreed. He exited the room and sprawled himself on the sofa closest to the entrance.

John slowly followed him out, unsure if Sherlock really was willing to wait out here or if he was just avoiding John's earlier question. He saw Castiel staring out the back window, apparently lost in thought. _A real angel,_ John mused, _standing in Molly's living room._

"Molly? How are you putting up with all this? Strangers in your house, unearthly creatures, foreigners…" Sherlock trailed off.

Molly turned down the blue flame licking the bottom of the kettle as she answered. "I'm not sure yet. Everything's happening a bit fast."

"Is it exciting? Frightening? Nauseating?"

"I don't think I mind. I mean, you're alive and that's nice," she said, pouring out tea in little black cups.

"Do you feel like you're part of something? Something other than opening dead bodies?"

"I don't understand what you're trying to ask," Molly said softly as she brought Sherlock's cup over.

He took it from her with one hand. With the other, he grabbed her wrist and commanded, "Sit."

Molly threw John a wordless plea which he returned with a helpless shrug. She sat.

"I'm trying to ask if you like it."

"Yes."

"Yes," Sherlock repeated. He grinned. "Does your liking have anything to do with the fact that you are now surrounded by five men?"

"Sherlock!" John warned from his place a couple of steps back.

"What?" Molly's voice was suddenly defensive. "No, that has nothing to do with it! It's nothing like that. I'm just glad I'm helping, I don't care if you're all… men!"

Sherlock relaxed his grip on her wrist. "I was just curious, is all. We'll soon be joined by Lestrade, making the equation an even six."

"I don't care," Molly repeated.

John watched the interaction with a feeling of growing anxiety. This was Sherlock's game; this was what he did in that fraction of a lull between cases and while he was waiting. He pushed the buttons of people. He experimented on them and watched their reactions. He showed off his superiority. There was a tense sort of feeling in the air. Even the angel had turned to watch the pair.

"I know you don't care, Molly, I'm just observant of how comfortably you've shared your flat with so many others. Without any expectations," Sherlock continued. "Or do you have expectations?" John wanted to stop him, to be in his range of vision and imperceptibly shake his head, to give him a disapproving look.

But instead, John found himself peering intently at Molly for her answer.

She didn't disappoint. "I _don't_ have expectations, Sherlock. And you might find that hard to believe. But I actually know how to treat my friends, and I don't keep expectations from friends. I help them because I want to."

John watched Sherlock go from arrogantly toying with Molly to… _well, she shut him up, whatever it is._

Sherlock got away with it this time. The door opened and Lestrade walked through, smiling then not smiling, then saying, "Oh, my god! They told me but I couldn't believe them."

And Sherlock focused his attention on him. John could see the wheels turning in his head, examining the Detective and nitpicking details and smoothly telling him, "I see your divorce finally went through. Also, you probably need to get that sprained wrist looked at. It's going to start swelling soon if you don't."

John shook his head, because this _also_ is what Sherlock does. He instantly disarms and intimidates a person he meets, lets them immediately know he has the upper hand. He could see it's true, too. Lestrade clutched the aforementioned wrist closer to his chest and replied, "How did you escape? How did you _survive_?"

"I think the story might take a bit of explaining, which I really don't think is the focus of our meeting."

"Then what is?" Lestrade blinked, confused. He glanced up, taking in the presence of John and Castiel.

The Winchesters closed the door behind them, looking content with their days work. They've brought in the Detective. Dean's eyes are roaming the kitchen for the bottles of wine Molly had purchased the night before; Sam's eyes fixed on Molly.

"Well, we're in a bit of a fix. You see, we have your criminal here," Sherlock stunned everyone by pointing out Castiel. "He's the murderer."

Nobody had expected Sherlock to take this kind of approach, especially not Dean. His interest in wine swiftly dissipated and he said gruffly, "What're you doing?"

Castiel stepped forward. "You don't understand-" he started, but Sherlock kept going.

"But what we're trying to figure out isn't who killed them, Lestrade. We're trying to figure out _why_ those people were in a position to get killed."

Lestrade looked completely out of his element. He shook his head. "I really don't understand what's happening here. He's the murderer?"

"Yes- but now you're thinking: how's that possible? Because nothing human could have entered or exited through those locked doors. Unless it was an angel, of course, but that's skipping ahead. Next point: those throats slashed could not have been suicides, and even if they were, where's the weapon? But Lestrade, it isn't the slashed throats we're interested in. I've already told you who did that. What we're interested in are the pinpricks and tattoos on the necks of deceased," Sherlock was smoothly relaying all the information, but Lestrade abruptly interrupted him.

"Are you high?" He looked around the room at the clusters of people. John tried to imagine the situation from the Detectives point of view. It must've looked grim. "Has he been using again?" Lestrade demanded.

"What?" John stepped forward. "No, no. He hasn't. Just listen to him."

"Listen to him? Have you heard the nonsense he's spouting?" Lestrade scoffed.

"It's not _nonsense_, Detective, just listen!" Dean stepped in.

"I would if I knew what exactly I was listening to! Sherlock, you should by all rights be dead. But you're standing here in front of me talking about tattoos and angels and suicide murders, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to react?"

"By shutting your mouth and using your brain!" Sherlock snapped. "You're not going to believe me at first, and that's okay, but you'll have to eventually because I'm telling the truth."

"If you are, the first thing I should be doing is arresting that bloke standing there for murder."

"But you need him to solve the rest of it!"

"The rest of what?" Lestrade was beginning to get extremely frustrated.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Okay, then. I've told you he did it; now tell me how. That is your job, isn't it? Solving crimes, apprehending criminals?" When Lestrade glared at him without speaking, Sherlock smirked and went on, "Something very big is going on here. Bigger than we could've ever suspected- bigger than is humanly possible. It extends to things like the rate of missing children shooting up in the past month, storms and atmospheric disturbances, the increase in unexplained animal slaughterings, a very large pile of unsolved cases. You know I'm telling the truth. You've probably noticed it yourself. You're going to have to believe us. And we need your help, Lestrade. Can we expect it?"

Lestrade's expression softened. "You know I've always helped you. I've looked after you when you were just starting off, when you were lost and hopelessly addicted, when you moved in with John. And I have no intentions of stopping now. Even if I do think you're stark raving mad."

Sherlock grinned; he'd got the man's attention and now he had an entry. "Until I have unbidden access to the bodies, you'll have to be my eyes." Sherlock made a face, suggesting how much he disliked the idea. "Start with the pinpricks. 50 words or less, describe them."

"Oh, well. They're small, located on the jugular, barely noticeable unless you actually were paying close attention to them. According to the guy who did the post-mortem, they weren't made by a syringe or needle of any kind, they had a specific shape. Slightly curved downward. Like an animal's fangs-"

"Stop. I said 50 words."

"Were you counting?" Lestrade glanced around. "Was he bloody counting?"

"The tattoos- go."

"Okay, they were basically really fancy capital "Q" letters, intricate circles with lines sticking out of them," Lestrade stopped and smiled proudly.

"I said 50 words," Sherlock muttered his dissatisfaction through clenched teeth. "You can't go under, either."

"That's a binding link," Sam spoke up. "I saw the photographs- forget to mention. I had one for a while when Meg... Anyway. Nasty thing. Means demons can't be exorcised from the body, nor can they leave voluntarily if they want to."

"This means Crowley's forcing his own to do what they don't want to," Dean added.

"They aren't Crowley's own anymore. He's much more than them, he'll have started considering them inferiors," it was Castiel who was talking this time.

John could see Sherlock clenching his jaw and controlling his breathing. Perspiration appeared on the brilliant man's forehead. It was so unlike the pleasant expression he'd had earlier, alone with John in the room. A tiny smile appeared on John's lips. Sherlock hated being the uninformed one in the group. Actually, he hated being in a group, period. It was probably killing him to work with people who contributed just as much as he did, if not more. But it wasn't just Sherlock.

"You've gone and lost me again," Lestrade complained. "I think we're talking about fancy tattoos and you go bring up demons. What is that, a new slang term? A gang? Who's Crowley?"

"A very bad villain," Sherlock muttered. "Oh!" Suddenly, his entire body straightened as if electrocuted. His eyes were open wide, eyebrows nearly touching the hair falling over his forehead. That manic expression- John recognized it instantly. Sherlock had put something together. He turned to Castiel. "He said he was the king now?"

"Yes," Castiel affirmed warily.

"And tell me, does that give him dominion over his _entire_ realm? Everyone in it? Every_thing_ in it? In all of existence?" Sherlock asked frantically.

"Don't forget Purgatory- not everything's in Hell." Dean warned.

"No, no-" Sherlock waved his hands in front of his face, as if to keep Dean's words from tangibly reaching his brain. He shot Dean a look. "Shut up! Okay, Castiel, concentrate. What all is down there?"

Castiel listed, "Souls of the damned- sinners, crossroad bargains, witches and so on. They eventually become demons, who then form their own ranks: Torturers, viceroys, duchesses. Some were granted request to return to Earth."

"What about hellhounds?"

"Yes, they're from Hell, as the name implies," Cas managed to be sarcastic without even understanding the concept.

"So there are animals in Hell, yes?" Sherlock's lips were beginning to tug upwards as the pieces fell into place.

Cas nodded. "But only very specific ones. Ones that belong there or started there."

"Okay, what's your point?" Dean demanded. "You've got to be going somewhere with this."

"Oh, we're all such mighty fools," Sherlock chuckled as he looked into each of the faces of the people gathered around him. "It's right there, under our noses. Two pinpricks. New ownership of Hell, new rules. Crowley's digging deep to bring back Lucifer's companion and humanity's old enemies. It's temptation, the cleverest and craftiest of them all."

"Who!" Dean nearly yelled.

"Oh, stupid humans!" Sherlock hissed almost in delight, managing to differentiate himself from humans even in this vital moment. "It's the Serpent!"


	12. Chapter 12: From The Lips Of The Prophet

Molly, Cas, John, and Sam sat across from each other on the little dining table in the kitchen. The lights cast their faces into shadows. Castiel was saying, "It was only supposed to be a myth. The Host of Heaven are not aware that the Serpent existed physically."

Sam narrowed his eyes, "Didn't you guys see the first sin? The Serpent offering Eve the apple?"

"We were… shielded from the occasion. Our exposure to our fallen brother was meant to be minimal. Only the archangels were allowed to view certain parts of history. We never questioned it."

"That actually happened?" John asked.

Sam shrugged. "Angels should know, but the Bible isn't exactly a reliable source. Cas, can't you just go back in time to see it happening? I mean, angels can time travel."

"I can't _now._ And back then, I didn't see the need to. You forget, Sam, that in my entire life, it has only been very recently that angels were allowed to interfere in human affairs. In the same way Purgatory's existence was kept shrouded from us, it's possible other things were as well."

"So basically, we have no information on the Serpent," Sam muttered.

"Basically," Cas agreed.

"We were always taught serpents were the familiars of the Devil," Molly volunteered.

Sam and Castiel turned to stare at her, surprised. An unexpected source.

"What?" She asked. Again Sam noticed the timid demeanor veiling a much deeper perception. Molly was used to being ignored. She went on, "When I was younger, my mum made me go to Bible study."

"That's gruesome," Sam observed.

Molly laughed nervously, high pitched. "Yes, well, I was supposed to turn out a good, decent woman. I turned out to be an introvert mortician. Joke's on my mum."

"So in your Bible study, they said what exactly?" Cas questioned.

"They used to say the Serpent followed the Devil everywhere he went; that it was attracted to any places of strong evil and tempted the people living there. It would show them what they most wanted and when they began to get comfortable with the idea of _having,_ it would make them pay," Molly paused. "We were never told how they paid."

"That's interesting. Honestly, we've got to work with whatever we've got right now. Your guess is as good as ours. I should tell Dean," Sam muttered. Dean, along with Sherlock and Lestrade, had gone to the apartment. Lestrade took a bit of convincing; he didn't seem to fully believe what he was dealing with but had promised to back Sherlock up.

"Yo, little bro!" Dean greeted him.

Sam made a face (which Dean would have instantly dubbed "_the bitchface_" had he seen it. He set the phone on speaker and said, "Hey, how's it going?"

"Dude, you will not believe this Sherlock guy. I mean, seriously, you should've seen him in action when he walked in the house. He could tell what the family ate for breakfast just by looking around the kitchen for 15 seconds. Then he told me one of the daughters was dyslexic, the other was deaf in her left ear, and there was a goldfish in one of the upper bedrooms!" Dean's voice came out enthusiastic through the speaker.

"Well, listen, Molly has some ideas about the Serpent. It's supposed to be a familiar of Lucifer."

"Doesn't work. Lucifer's in the cage," Dean replied.

"What if Crowley's controlling it?"

"Yeah, what if. Dude, I think Sherlock's kind of a klepto," Dean snickered.

Molly and John glanced up sharply and exchanged concerned expressions as Sam asked, "How?"

"The guy nicked a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand in one of the rooms when he thought I wasn't looking."

"Dean?" John grabbed the phone and said loudly. "Dean, it's John. Get those away from him. He's supposed to be quitting. Get them _away_ from him."

"Uh, what am I supposed to do? Tackle him to the ground? They're in his coat."

"I don't care what you do and how you do it, he cannot have the packet. He'll hide them and none of us will ever be able to find them again and it'll be relapse all over again," John spoke concisely, frowning.

Dean sighed, the sound obnoxious through the speakers. "Fine, I'll try. You're gonna be in my pocket for a minute, so don't bother talking." There was a moment of quiet breathing, then noises at a distance, "Hey man. Can I borrow a cigarette?"

Sherlock's deep cadence, "Sorry, haven't got any."

"I saw you put the packet in your pocket. Just one, c'mon. Help a brother out."

"You don't smoke."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock just laughed. The question wasn't even deserving of an answer, transparent and weak.

"Maybe I just started," Dean insisted.

"Okay, I'm trying to solve a case here. I'd appreciate you pissing off to doing whatever it is you do with your loud annoying devices," Sherlock's tone was condescending.

"Hey! It's called an EMF meter, alright?" Sam recognized defensiveness in Dean's voice.

There was a scuffling noise, then "Get off me! Stop!"

John leaned forward. That was Sherlock in obvious distress. He looked apprehensively at Sam. "What's your brother doing?"

"What you asked him to," Sam responded.

"Gimme that!" Dean's loud grunt came through, then a loud thud and muffled struggling sounds.

"Is that a phone?" Sherlock demanded just as the line cut.

John sat back in his chair, exhaling with frustration. "Okay, what the fuck just happened there?"

"It didn't sound too good," Castiel stared in amusement at the phone. He still didn't fully understand how they worked but he was fascinated by them.

John texted Sherlock with his own phone:

_**J: Sherlock, what happened?**_

_**S: Was that you on the other end of Dean's call?**_

_**J: It was on speaker. **_

_**S: He ATTACKED me, John! Do something!**_

John sighed. It was amazing how indignant Sherlock managed to sound over text. Like a child who comes to a parent for justice after a sibling fight. What was John expected to do from so far away?

_**J: Well, you were breaking a rule. No more smoking for you.**_

_**S: I was only taking the packet to fingerprint later. **_

_**J: So you risked contaminating it with your own fingerprints? Yeah, Sherlock, that seems legit. Where's Dean now? **_

_**S: He ran outside when I threatened to knock him unconscious. **_

John rolled his eyes. "Well, the good news is Dean's safe _and_ has the cigarette pack. The bad news is Sherlock's probably going to hold a bit of a grudge against him," John announced.

Molly grinned, "But he gets over those awfully fast, so I think it's okay."

"A grudge?" Cas asked. "But Sherlock told me he doesn't pay attention to emotions."

John laughed bitingly. "Is that what he said? Sherlock likes to think he's above all that, but I've never seen a man so wholly crippled by his emotions as him. He doesn't _recognize_ what he's feeling are emotions, but he does feel them. Trust me."

"It's better than Dean. He knows exactly what he's feeling and still pretends he doesn't," Sam added.

"I think the only person who was ever capable of deciphering Sherlock was Mycroft…" Molly said softly. Sam and John met eyes and swiftly looked away, the movement so jerky and suspicious that Molly instantly picked up on it. "What is it? Are you two hiding something?"

Sam realized exactly how intuitive Molly really was. "Mycroft?" Sam tried to quickly cover up. "The name sounds really familiar. Who is he? I've heard of him over where we live, too."

"Sherlock's brother? You know about him in the States?" Molly asked. She didn't look convinced.

"I've _heard,_ I don't _know,_" Sam stressed.

"What have you heard?" Molly crossed her arms challengingly.

"Oh, you know, that he's… a really smart person. Involved in the government. Secretive type…" Sam trailed off when Molly made a face and raised her eyebrow. He took a deep breath and blurted, "Okay, he kidnapped me and John after Dean ran away and demanded if Sherlock was alive."

Molly's stance changed to defensive and Sam was reminded of John's words that she was infatuated with Sherlock. "What did you tell him?"

"Molly, you know Mycroft. He wasn't really asking. He mostly told us he already knew," John consoled.

"I don't care," Molly said heatedly. "Sherlock didn't want Mycroft to know! And you lot couldn't keep this bit of news quiet!"

Sam was about to make a remark when he remembered that _this_ was a woman who kept her mouth shut even when Dean and Sam had kidnapped her. And they must've seemed a lot more psychotic then Mycroft did, guns versus umbrella. He suddenly felt weak next to Molly who looked barely 120 pounds. He cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry."

John didn't say anything at all, just looked away.

"Never mind. Just try not to let Sherlock find out," Molly muttered. She looked embarrassed at her outburst.

There was uncomfortable shifting at the table until Castiel broke the veil of awkward by suddenly saying, "There were rumors, you understand. In Heaven. There were enemies even the archangels couldn't control. Lower angel classes, myself included, weren't even told of them."

"How are we expected to defeat something even the angels can't?" Sam shut his eyes tight and pressed his hands to them.

"Well, you have Sherlock," Molly reminded them.

"And he is a prophet. They have a certain different power than angels. In some senses, even more potent than our own," Castiel acknowledged.

Almost in response to the turn of the conversation, the door opened.

Lestrade stepped in, the keys to Molly's apartment in one hand. He held a different key in the other. When he saw the group of four sitting around the dining table, he threw the other key at the center and said, "Not my division anymore."

"What…?" John began but promptly shut his mouth when he saw what had happened.

Lestrade had cuffed Dean and Sherlock together. They came into the flat with a forced air of dignity. Dean was limping. Sherlock had a bruise where his lower lip had been split open.

"What the fuck happened to you two? A tornado?" Sam demanded.

"He _hit_ me!" Sherlock yelled at the same as Dean cried, "He fights _dirty!_"

"They were acting like children!" Lestrade's authoritative inspector voice cut both of their complaints. "So I did the same thing I do to my kids when they misbehave: cuffed them together to sort it. Honestly, '_he stole my packet,' 'he lied to me,' _–could you be more immature?"

John just sighed, "I'll go get the medical kit again."

"Wait, John! Open me first!" Sherlock gestured at the key lying on the table.

John chuckled before leaving and said, "You deserve this one, mate. Sorry. You told me you were quitting the cigarettes for good."

"Cas?" Dean asked in a washed-out voice.

"I don't understand what's happening," Castiel replied in a bewildered tone.

"Oh, son of a bitch! You're not gonna be much help here. Sammy?"

Sam shook his head, smirking.

Finally, both Sherlock and Dean fixed looks on Molly. She was staring intently at the key, brown hair falling over her face as she concentrated hard. Finally, Molly looked up and directed her arguments to Sherlock, "You know you're asking me to risk offending four other men for just the two of you? How would you play the odds, consulting detective?"

Sherlock exhaled sharply and said to Dean, "She isn't going to give us the key. Revenge, I'm guessing."

Molly wordlessly picked up the key and handed it to Sherlock. "Don't think you know how all humans work," Molly said calmly with a smile.

Sam stared at her as she did so. She didn't look angry or affected; she didn't look degrading or vengeful. It wasn't like she was purposefully defying his words. She… seemed honestly to be pitying Sherlock. Sam saw his own surprise very briefly reflected on Sherlock's face who quickly covered up the emotion and unlocked the cuffs.

Dean backed away from Sherlock as fast as he could as soon as his hand was free. "Psycho," he muttered very quietly in Sam's ear. "Just like the rest. Definitely a good asset to our team." Dean returned his attention to the tall man when he started talking.

"While Dean was busy contaminating the scene and playing with his toys-"

"Children!" Lestrade chimed in.

"-I was actually working," Sherlock finished, ignoring the comment. "And I think I found the perfect thing." He pulled out a little frilly pink notebook from his coat and proudly waved it around. He handled it almost fondly.

John returned with the medical kit. He gave the rhinestone studded notebook being waved in the air a long look before setting the supplies down and heading to the kitchen. "I fucking quit," Sam could barely make out the man muttering as he pulled himself a bottle of beer from the fridge.

"Okay, what is it?" Sam figured he should ask since everyone else didn't want to encourage him.

"This! This is the diary of Jenna Archer, the older daughter of the slain family. And it holds all of our answers. Listen to this!" Sherlock said excitedly, flipping pages quickly with bright eyes. He read:

"_We had a guest today. Mum made me wait in the room like I'm some kind of infant. It was obviously someone important. Dad served tea in the black cups. Then, a bit later, Mum came into my room crying and all snotty and asked me the one thing I wanted most of all. I said I wanted to be popular in school. She just sort of laughed and left again. I could hear her asking Sharon the same thing through the vent in the ceiling. Sharon said she wanted to be the smartest kid in her grade and read properly, like the teacher does. Stupid thing to want, if you ask me." _

"Is there a point to this?" Dean interrupted.

Sherlock cleared his throat, clearly slighted. "Yes!" He hissed. "This is the last entry in a 14 year old girl's diary, which she updated daily to the prior event. That happened about two weeks ago- around the same time all the mess in London started. Correct, Castiel?"

Castiel nodded. "The exact date in unclear to me, but yes."

"How would a 14 year old girl's calendar be bustling full of events and parties only in the past two weeks when it was completely empty before? And how does a 12 year old girl have brand new copies of books by Leo Tolstoy, James Joyce, and William Faulkner that she's clearly read many times already?"

"Sherlock, you're suggesting the Serpent visited them?" Castiel clarified.

"I'm not suggesting it," Sherlock said with finality.

"Okay, what about the parents? What'd they want?" Dean asked.

"The wife asked for a more physical relationship with her husband- which did happen recently, judging by the shape and design of their bedroom and bathroom. And the husband asked for a promotion, which he also received if you'd bothered to check his mail," Sherlock finished smugly.

"Your theory is the Serpent… does what exactly? Gives people exactly what they want most? Like a crossroad demon?" Dean looked both impressed and baffled.

Here, Sherlock paused and said, "Still need more information. It's clear the Serpent doesn't just give it to them. It tempts them first; isn't that the point? And obviously then it forces demons in their bodies as some kind of… what? A reminder? A threat? Is _that_ what it's doing? Forcing demons into bodies of people in exchange for their deepest desires?"

Lestrade spoke up, "I can't believe I'm taking part in this madness and I'll probably regret it later, but what if the demons are… enforcers? If I was letting my inferiors go about accomplishing whatever they want, I'd keep an officer with them all time. Under my command and reporting back to me."

"Lestrade, you brilliant man! That's it, and that answers everything!" Sherlock yelled loudly; Molly fearfully looked at the walls (which suddenly seemed too thin; she did have neighbors, you know). Sherlock whirled around and looked at John, haughty and confident.

"Yes, Sherlock, very good," John complimented with the air of a man whose done this before and the air of a mother whose child had produced yet another shitty drawing to be put on the fridge.

"You haven't answered yet how we find this Serpent and how we stop it," Castiel said.

Sherlock's smile diminished. "I need more data," he muttered. "I'm not psychic, you know."

"Chuck was," Dean sneered.

"Chuck," Sherlock spat with open disdain, "from what I understand, was an alcoholic and incompetent prophet. _I'm_ Sherlock Holmes and _I'm_ a consulting detective. I don't need to be given divine instruction; I'm clever enough to figure it out on my own."

"Cas, what's the chance that he's wrong?" Dean demanded. Sam sighed loudly. Could he fucking drop it? It was just creating more tension. Sherlock didn't exactly seem like the kind of guy who would put up with Dean for long- and he should've figured that out by now judging from his limp.

"I have never met a prophet before who was wrong. His name is etched in my memory for a reason, Dean. He should know what he's talking about," Castiel replied.

The smug look returned to Sherlock's face. His eyes sought out John again, leaning on the edge of the refrigerator. John gave him a comforting smile.

"Okay, shouldn't we be figuring out how to find the Serpent instead of questioning the validity of the theory? Especially since that's the best we got going right now?" Sam asked.

"Theory," Sherlock snorted.

"I'm sorry I can't help," Castiel murmured. He looked sad. With his previous abilities, Castiel could have done a quick round of the city in a few minutes and reported anything he found. Getting cut off from Heaven must suck, Sam decided.

"Couldn't we bait it?" Molly said suddenly. Her voice was unusually high. "What if one of us really wants something? Wouldn't the Serpent try to find us to increase its… army or whatever?"

"An army," Sherlock mused. "Why is it building an army?"

"I don't know, I just said it," Molly confessed.

"You might be on to something, though," Sam said quickly. "About both things. We could bait it and it might be building an army."

Cas looked disturbed "If Hell is already under Crowley's control, and he's clearly working in cooperation with the Serpent, who is it building an army against?"

"Perhaps, Castiel, against the only other enemy that requires an army: the angels. Perhaps your brethren are aware of the coming attack and they're fortifying heaven. Perhaps you failed to make your way back before the gates closed. Perhaps that's why you're left here as sacrifice, the collateral damage," Sherlock said very fast in a low voice, reasoning it out as he went along.

Castiel's eyes widened. They had abandoned him- it came from the lips of the prophet. What he said was truth; and Sherlock was a man who wouldn't say something unless he too thought it to be certain. Slowly, Castiel's back hunched as he leaned lower in his chair. He felt defeated.

Dean put his hand on Cas's shoulders. "Hey, buddy. We'll get through this, okay? We're gonna do this. We handle everything."

"Do you, now?" Sherlock had that dangerous gleam in his eyes, the arrogance multiplied each time he came closer to solving a case.

Dean shot him an angry look. "Yes, we do!"

"But if you handle everything, how'd you end up in this mess?"

"Okay, that's it. It's your bedtime now," John announced, setting his now empty beer bottle on the counter. "Enough of your rudeness. There's only so much we can tolerate in one day."

"John!" Sherlock protested.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That hardly seems relevant," he sniffed.

"Bedroom, now," John pointed almost warningly.

He straightened his back. His eyes flicked from the bedroom to John. Finally, he said, "I'm going to think now. Do not disturb the prophet."

"Oh, to hell with your theatrics," John muttered, following the taller man into the spare guest room he was inhabiting.

"I'll just go home, then," Lestrade said, edging toward the front door. He looked at the Winchesters. "Watch over them. Molly, back to work tomorrow, yes? Your replacement is an absolute wanker." She nodded and closed the door after him, turning to survey the scattering of her guests. Dean was guiding Castiel to one of the two sofas over in the living room.

Sam and she were left alone. "Guess I'm on first watch," he chuckled.

"I can keep you company," Molly offered shyly.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't impose!" Sam said quickly.

"It'd be my pleasure," she insisted. "I can stay up a few more hours; I always manage to sleep at the morgue anyway. Dead people provide lousy company," she quipped.

Sam shrugged but smiled warmly. "I'd welcome that. Sorry again about the Mycroft thing. And Molly, really, thanks for letting us stay. You're an incredible person."

She tucked her hair behind an ear and said, "It's no problem! And just forget Mycroft. Tell me more about your adventures in America," Molly sat down across from Sam at the table.

Sam laughed and recounted tales with Molly all night.


	13. Chapter 13: Tempting Evil Pie

_**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone for reading and the reviews! **_

Sherlock watched John sleep. He seemed suddenly childlike, curled up on his side and clutching the pillow. Sometimes he would shudder, his breathing getting very fast, sweat breaking out on his forehead. All indications of nightmare. Sherlock knew John used to have awful nightmares when he first moved in. Signs of PTSD, undoubtedly from Afghanistan. They had decreased until (it seemed) now.

At first, John had tried to force Sherlock to go to sleep. John had pulled the covers on him and threatened him and even attempted to pin his arms and legs down. When that didn't work, he had eventually lain down in exhaustion and fell asleep himself.

Sherlock didn't need sleep; he needed to think. Occasionally, the faint sounds of Molly's laughter or the gigantic Sam's low voice would reach his ears. He was tempted to go out and demand that they shut up, but that meant risking waking John up and incurring his wrath for not having slept.

Instead, he finished Jenna Archer's diary. Something was wrong. Very, very off. And he couldn't catch it. Through her diary, Sherlock was able to make an extremely accurate image of the girl, stubborn but ambitious. It kind of took the fun out of it; instead of figuring her out, there was all the information laid out for his pleasure to read.

He sat very still on the chair and studied John instead. John liked the Winchesters. He was comfortable with Molly.

Actually, now that he thought about it- _Molly _was comfortable with Molly, a fact that caught Sherlock off guard. She was no longer the complacent, forlorn girl he'd met at the morgue. She was starting to stand up against him. Perhaps he only had himself to blame. Her threshold had increased.

And Lestrade. Invaluable piece of the puzzle. Sherlock needed his help. He _knew_ he did; felt it in the same place that had convinced him Castiel was real. And there was someone else, too, he wanted to take the help of but couldn't bring himself to ask.

He wished he had a pack of cigarettes, but smug Dean had managed to get his hands on the pack Sherlock found at the slain family's house. Instead, he rifled through his old clothing and found the nicotine patches he'd brought after first coming back to life. Two patches only.

Sherlock paced the room, decided the sound of his feet across the carpet was too loud for an ex-army doctor, and finally sat on the edge of the bed. His attention refocused on John. As Sherlock watched, John's brow trembled and his breath became labored. His hand was twitching.

Experimentally, Sherlock reached and stroked John's index finger. Almost reflexively, like a baby, John's hand snatched Sherlock's and held it tight. He pulled it closer to himself. Sherlock found himself drawn toward him, unwilling for John to let go.

John whimpered softly when he met resistance from Sherlock's hand. Quickly, Sherlock leaned forward as John took the hand and held it close to his chest. He made a sound again deep in his throat.

It hurt Sherlock to hear him this way. A memory, distant and blurry, came to him. Being in the hospital for an overdose, his older brother standing by his bedside. Again, Sherlock remembered he wanted to ask Mycroft for help. Instead, he lay down on his side and ran his remaining hand over John's forehead soothingly.

"Sh, sh, John. I'm here," Sherlock whispered.

"Mmf, Sherlock?" John's eyes fluttered open long enough to assure himself that the taller man was there before relaxing into sleep again.

Sherlock grabbed the duvet and pulled it over himself and John with his free hand. He curled around the shorter man, an affectionate gesture he couldn't resist from doing. Sherlock lightly pressed his lips to John's forehead.

"Good night," he murmured lightly against his skin.

Sherlock jerked awake when he realized the bed next to him was empty. When had he fallen asleep? He rose and stumbled into the bathroom, observing that John had already been in, showered and shaved. Sherlock couldn't believe he'd slept through all that. He must have been more tired than he'd realized. The nicotine patches were gone from his arm.

When he came out, John was just opening the door to the room. "Morning!" He greeted him. "Finally got you asleep last night, huh? Must've passed out right after. Funny, I don't remember that part."

"Yes, well…" Sherlock shrugged. He didn't mention any of the other details of last night.

"You know what else is funny, Sherlock? I woke up holding your hand."

"How is that funny?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed.

"Never mind," John muttered. He cleared his throat. "Dean and Cas went to buy some 'supplies' or something, being rather discreet about it."

"Weapons. They went to get weapons," Sherlock replied. "Where's the tall one?"

"Went with Molly. Said he'd do a proper examination of the body for signs of supernatural injuries."

Sherlock snorted. "Need to keep my eye on them," he said under his breath.

"Sherlock, can we talk about yesterday?" John asked.

"You'll have to be more specific, really. I can't narrow 24 hours down."

"About… us. About kissing," John said.

Sherlock detected faint traces of a blush on the other man's face. He grinned, "Yes, kissing is very nice, isn't it?"

"So what does it mean for us? Do you fancy me?"

"Is that a requirement of some sort? Do I have to fancy you to kiss you?" Sherlock asked.

John looked taken aback immediately after the words left Sherlock's mouth. "Then why'd you do it?"

"I wanted to make you happy, John."

"And you thought, _'Oh, I know. I bet John really wants a snog, that ought to make him happy.'_ And you went for it?" John exhaled sharply. "Okay, look. I really care about you. I mean, you're my best friend. I think you're brilliant." He stopped, unsure of how to go on.

"Relationships," Sherlock started slowly drawing the words out, "are difficult for me."

"I _know_ that. But I'll do everything I can to make it easier. Because I trust you- with my life. Sherlock, I want us to be together. I don't know what kind of massive risk I'm taking saying this because I can't afford to ever lose you again. But it's true," John took a step closer to Sherlock. "I want us. Is that too much to ask of you?"

John was so close to him. Sherlock could clearly see his dilated pupils, make a record of his fidgeting hands, the subconscious slope of his body leaning forward, steady gaze, lowered voice. He looked different (or is this how he always looked? Sherlock couldn't remember). John was attracted to him. It was obvious.

But what disturbed him was the fact that his own heartbeat had quickened when John had taken that first step toward him. His hands were twisting behind his back. The nonverbal communication Sherlock so much liked to pick up on other people was now displayed in him. Realizing the truth was automatic.

"I like you," Sherlock confessed in a small voice.

"Sherlock, can I kiss you again?" John asked, his eyes fixed on the taller man's lips.

"I hope you can because I really want you to."

John smiled. He put his hand on Sherlock's neck and moved close. Without touching with his lips, his finger traced Sherlock's neck up to his jawline. Their breath was coming together now, but still John held off. Savoring. Teasing. With a frustrated growl, Sherlock crushed his lips down on John.

Warmth. Desire. A dizzying Sherlock normally associated with vertigo. He parted his lips and John's tongue swept into his mouth. Things stopped making sense then, as his arms wrapped around John. He pulled him to his body and the other man made no complaints. Keeping the focus on the sweet wet kisses, Sherlock guided John to the bed and pushed him down.

Sherlock paused to stare into John's eyes, again failing to recall if they always looked this intense, this smooth and gray, like the sky after the sun's gone down, like the color of charcoal covered with dusky ash, like... oh, fuck the metaphors. Sherlock hungrily leaned back over John, welcomingly surprised at how quickly he'd got the hang of this kissing business. By John's reaction (stunned, turned on, reciprocating), Sherlock knew he was doing it right.

"You're fucking amazing," John breathed.

"You're doing it out loud again," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock, wait-" John started.

Sherlock covered his mouth to prevent anymore protests, one of his knees firmly between John's legs. He was enjoying this. Kissing truly was unlike other sensations. It made him feel… alive. A little more human. Like he could step out of the room and say he _knew_ what humans do now and he knew how to behave like one. It was soft, John was soft. He stopped and peered at John. He had to struggle to breathe.

"Can we just be a little more slow?" John asked, taking advantage of the lull.

"Slower. Not 'more slow'. Slower," Sherlock corrected.

"Not now," John warned.

Sherlock rolled over and lay flat on his back, taking the moment in. "Thank goodness we're not at Baker Street," he said suddenly, chuckling. "Could you imagine Ms. Hudson walking in on this? She was already convinced we were together."

"It doesn't matter; she's hardly ever in anymore. Visits her sister all the time," John replied, then twisted to his side to catch Sherlock's lips in a kiss again.

Sherlock returned it, but this time he kept his eyes open and quickly pulled away. "_Sister_?" He demanded incredulously.

John cocked his head back. "Sister," he confirmed.

"Ms. Hudson doesn't have a sister," Sherlock said, shaking his head.

"What? No, that's impossible. She spent the night at the hospital when Molly came over because of her sister," John explained.

"Ms. Hudson," Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth, "does _not_ have a sister."

"But… then what… she went to meet her all the time!" John insisted.

Sherlock pushed himself up off the bed and said, "C'mon. We need to find out who Ms. Hudson is lying about visiting."

"What? Now?" John asked, making a face.

"Yes, John! This could be important!" Sherlock stressed.

"Discussing your landlady, talk about turn-off," John complained but obediently rose, tucked his gun into the waistband of his only jeans, and followed John out the door.

"I believe the term is 'cock-block', but I could be mistaken," Sherlock replied, tying his scarf around his neck and heading for the front door.

John groaned once they were outside. Sherlock always walked like he was about to miss his train and John's legs were considerably shorter. He felt like he always lagged behind a few seconds, both physically and mentally. "You know, Sherlock, this is so like you! I mean, I'm not going to go and whine about it because I care about Ms. Hudson. But really, you don't just go from snogging one second to running around the other. Obviously you like kissing. Who doesn't? But then this whole sister situation came up and you found a mystery and you pounced on it. There are so many distractions for you, aren't there?"

Sherlock stopped for a moment, giving John that moment to catch up. He stared at John with a new respect. "That wasn't bad. That was actually a very sound analysis."

"Was it really?" John asked, a smile creeping on his face.

"Really," Sherlock assured him, and then took off at his long stride again.

As they turned the corner, Sherlock nearly collided into Dean.

"Whoa, slow down there, Matlock!" Dean commented. Castiel peeped from behind Dean's shoulder.

"My name is _Sher_lock!"

"No, no. Matlock's this lawyer character who solves mysteries… never mind. Where are you going?"

"Apartment," he barked, shifting feet and glancing at the watch on his wrist in an attempt to subconsciously indicate to Dean that he was late and needed to leave.

Dean didn't pick up the cue. Instead, he said, "Cool, can me and Cas tag along?"

"Cas and I," Sherlock said automatically.

"YES!" John said loudly. "Yes, you can. Ms. Hudson won't mind."

"But I will," Sherlock said impatiently.

John glared at him. "Play nice," he commanded.

Sherlock half smiled, "That's cute, when you try to be aggressive and tough. Mr.-Ex-Army-Doctor. I like it when you try to take charge. Is that something we can explore more in the b-"

"Sherlock! Privacy!" He spluttered, turning red.

"Oh, please. That's just a social construct," Sherlock dismissed.

"Hey, Cas doesn't understand personal space, either!" Dean volunteered.

"Please, shut up and conceal your gun better. It's obvious," Sherlock pointed at Dean's hip where indeed a gun peeked unnoticeably from his jacket.

Dean tucked in deeper into his jeans. "There. Now?"

"If you're going to insist, come on then," Sherlock snapped and started walking again. The little gang advanced down the streets. Soon, they were standing on the steps of 221B. "I haven't got a key anymore," Sherlock said, feeling unnatural without one suddenly.

John handed him his own key, said "We'll grab the spare inside."

"I am tired with my feet. Do humans normally do this much walking?" Cas asked.

He was ignored as Sherlock opened the door and John stepped in, taking the lead. "Ms. Hudson! We're home!" he called out.

"Oh, John! I was just starting to worry whether I should ring that nice Detective…" Ms. Hudson appeared in a collared smock and her eyes widened when she saw Sherlock. She slowly walked over and held out her arms to hug him. "Sherlock! Oh- but- how are you alive?"

"Ms. Hudson, I'll be sure to sit down and tell you the entire story sometime, but now another matter is at hand," he said, uncomfortable at her hugging but allowing it. Exactly three seconds later, he held her at arm's length and asked, "How do you suddenly have a sister?"

Ms. Hudson's smile dropped. "Sorry, dear, you never met her before. Just moved down."

"Ah, you're lying to me," Sherlock said. He purposefully frowned, letting his forehead wrinkle and his eyebrows slant and lips plump in a slight scowl. He knew the look would work on her.

"No, no, it isn't like that…" Ms. Hudson started.

"Oh! You're in a relationship now!" Sherlock exclaimed once he'd properly cast his eye around. He also noticed John going up the stairs into their apartment. "And you expect it to last a long time, don't you?"

Shaking her head, Ms. Hudson said "It isn't like that, Sherlock!"

"Oh, don't try and be coy, it doesn't suit you. Tell me. There is something you're hiding."

Ms. Hudson grimaced. "But… Oh, alright!" She said at last. "Come in the kitchen, I've just made pie," she indicated.

"Pie?" Dean's voice popped up in the background.

"Ah, yes. These are my friends, Dean and Castiel," Sherlock introduced.

Ms. Hudson vaguely waved in their direction. "They're welcome to the pie," she said distractedly.

"God, it smells heavenly in here," Dean remarked, inhaling in the kitchen.

"Sherlock! Do you want me to pick your infernal violin as well?" John yelled from the second story.

"GOD, YES! PLEASE!" Sherlock bellowed back. Dean snickered behind him. Sherlock ignored it and asked, "So, when did this happen?"

"Oh, it was about two weeks or so ago," she said, smiling and serving pieces of pie on paper plates.

Sherlock stared at her. "Two weeks? How?"

"I met him at the café. John was at work and I was feeling lonely," Ms. Hudson shrugged. "These things happen."

Sherlock's lips suddenly split into a wide smile. "Oh, I'm so happy for you!" Sherlock announced. He gathered Ms. Hudson into his arms and hugged her again. This time, he kept one hand around her neck and subtly adjusted the collar on her smock. His head snapped straight forward. He recoiled and pushed her away. "Well, we really must be going now. I'll talk to you later, yes? JOHN, ARE YOU DONE? WE NEED TO LEAVE!"

"Already?" He called back.

"Yeah, already?" Dean spoke with his mouth full of Ms. Hudson's amazing baking.

"YES!" Sherlock's voice sounded urgent.

He ran for the door almost faster than his legs could manage. "We have that appointment in a few minutes, Ms. Hudson, we need to get going. JOHN! LEAVE THE REST; WE'LL COME BACK FOR IT!" He screamed, veins bulging in his neck.

"I'm coming! Jeez!" John appeared at the top of the stairs, his suitcase plastered with army stickers and deportation signs bulging full in one hand, Sherlock's violin case in the other. "What's the emergency?" He demanded.

"I understand, dear. I'll be waiting for that story," Ms. Hudson said to Sherlock. To the casual observer, this was a woman who frequently dealt with her fussy tenants. But Sherlock was far from casual.

"Thank you for the pie, Ms. Hudson. It was great," Dean told her. He took Cas's half eaten plate and stuffed the rest of the pie in his mouth, gesturing with his eyebrows to the door.

Cas was being ushered to the door by Dean, saying "It was very nice to meet friends of Sherlock Holmes, the Pro-"

"LET'S GO!" Sherlock howled hysterically, cutting Cas off. Sherlock realized how abnormal, how suspicious he was being. He bounded forward and kissed Ms. Hudson lightly on the cheek. "You look lovely! We'll have a nice chat next time, but I've just thought of a clue for a case! Gotta dash!" He smiled reassuringly and took the violin case from John.

"Of course. Bye, Sherlock! See you, John!" Ms. Hudson said as they walked past her.

He managed to get everyone out the door and took off speed walking, on the very edge of a flat out run. He looked back at 221B once, waving madly to Ms. Hudson who returned the gesture.

"Okay, where's the fire?" Dean asked, having swallowed the last of the pie.

Sherlock said fast in a low voice, "Ms. Hudson's one of them. She had the tattoo. She had the bite."

John stopped dead in the middle of the street. "No," he said flatly.

"Don't be absurd, John. I saw it with my eyes. And there was the very faintest hint of sulfur; you couldn't detect it under the confectionary and fresh baking unless you were searching specifically for its scent. And didn't you notice all this started two weeks ago with her new relationship? What were you so busy doing that you didn't notice?" Sherlock berated, taking John's non-suitcase wrist until he started moving again.

"Well, Sherlock, my dearest friend had recently taken a flying leap off a fucking building," John retorted scathingly.

"She was a demon?" Dean sounded horrified.

"My powers are getting even weaker if I couldn't detect that," Cas said sadly.

"Son of a bitch! Demon fed us her tempting evil pie! We have to go back and kill her!" Dean fumed.

Sherlock grabbed Dean's jacket collar and cautioned, "You touch her and you'll regret it for the rest of your life. She is as close to a mother to me more than my biological mother." He heard John's sharp intake of breath beside him as the confession escaped him.

"Dude, get the fuck off me!" Dean shrugged his hands off, even as Cas took a defensive step forward.

Sherlock stepped back, looking self-conscious. He said evenly, "I'll find a way to fix her. Stay. Away."

"You're the Prophet. Whatever your highness says," Dean mocked.

Sherlock clenched his teeth together and failed to respond, increasing his speed but mindful of John carrying a full suitcase beside him. As they neared Molly's building, Sherlock began talking, "I know there's a way to reverse it; she's harmless for now but we don't know why they're building an army, she could change at any time…" He stopped abruptly at the front door.

"Go on," John waited.

"Why have we stopped? I'm still tired with my feet," Castiel said.

"No, shut up. Molly's curtain just moved. Someone's inside," Sherlock whispered. He laid the violin case against the steps and unlocked the first door. He tip-toed to the second one to Molly's actual apartment. "Dean, get your gun. John, give me yours," he commanded to John, who left the suitcase and stayed at Sherlock's back.

John shook his head and whispered fiercely in return, "I am _not_ letting you put yourself in more danger. Besides, I'm the better shot!"

"John," Sherlock snarled the single syllable.

Just as stubborn, John shook his head. "Dean, stand directly behind me to my right and cover my head at all times. Sherlock, unlock this door and back away from it," he said steadily.

Dean moved to the indicated position, tried to give the alarmed Castiel a reassuring look, and pointed Sherlock at the doorknob. He mouthed frantically, '_OPEN IT!'_

Sherlock huffed with frustration, but did unlock the door and flattened himself against the wall. His eyes were rapidly flicking back and forth, searching for clues that didn't exist. But that was impossible. Someone breaking into Molly's flat must've left some kind of mark or trace, unless…

Pushing the door open and beating John inside, Sherlock announced, "Okay, everyone, relax. There's no imminent danger."

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell?" John cried, moving hastily inside and keeping his revolver trained forward. Dean mimicked the action, eyebrows drawn together alertly.

"Oh, John, stop that. It's embarrassing," Sherlock chided, his tone bored. He said lazily, "Hello, brother dearest."

"How nice to see you not covered in blood, Sherlock," Mycroft, that damn umbrella in his hands, smiled. "And how nice, John, to see you sober."


	14. Chapter 14: Reunion & Rejection

_**A/N: First, a MASSIVE thank you to everyone who took time to read and review! I owe you all! Second, apologies it took so long to update; I had finals. Now I can devote more time to this! Enjoy.**_

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><p>Dean kept his gun on the man waving an umbrella around Molly's apartment for just a moment more. He didn't care if the guy was Sherlock's brother or knew John, he had <em>broken in<em>. That made him dangerous. But eventually, he had to admit he looked ridiculous holding the trigger when everyone else had relaxed.

"Mycroft, what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked sharply.

Mycroft had been glancing around with a grim sort of smile on his face, but now he turned to Sherlock and frowned. "I mourned you," he said simply.

"Are we really going to do this now? When there are things so much more important to discuss?" Sherlock demanded.

"You're my little brother, Sherlock. It would do you well not to forget that I care about you," Mycroft's voice was calm and low but Dean couldn't miss the menace at the very edge of it. The brothers were so extremely absorbed in each other that Dean doubted they even noticed anything else in the room, particularly not John dropping heavily onto the sofa and burying his face in his hands.

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "Yes, yes. We all know how much you tend to _care,_" he sneered. "It's what you're famous for."

"And would you like to know what you're now famous for? Because it isn't anything nice, I can assure you. You've become a disgrace and you took the easy way out. I can't remember teaching you that."

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft! You don't know anything that happened that day, you don't know why I made those choices. Don't stand there with your disdain on when you don't know anything."

"Then why didn't you TELL me?" Mycroft growled in sudden anger, his voice erupting.

"They had snipers!" Sherlock yelled, veins bulging in his neck. "I'm sorry you couldn't save the day _for once_ and your massive ego won't let it go!"

"_I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!" _Mycroft was suddenly in Sherlock's face, his entire face red, body frame leaning forward threateningly. John got off the sofa and took a step forward. Mycroft noticed the movement and backed up slowly. He clutched the umbrella and turned away from his younger brother, gazing out the window and deliberately breathing slow. Replacing his façade.

"And the anger problems return," Sherlock said.

John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Stop," he murmured. He'd never seen Mycroft this unintentionally enraged, losing control like that.

Dean wondered if he should interrupt, say something or react in any way. He figured it wasn't his place to play referee, but he couldn't help sympathize with Mycroft. When Sam had died (Dean winced when he thought of how he had lived with his brother gone), the emotional storm inside Dean would have driven him insane had it not been for Ben and Lisa. Mycroft looked lonely, despite the ring on his finger. Who had helped him when his brother died?

"Why stop?" Sherlock snapped, shrugging John's hand off. "He's obviously disappointed in me, just like always. I've let him down once again."

"Disappointed?" Mycroft turned back incredulously. His eyebrows pointed upward, genuinely surprised. "You think I'm _disappointed_?" He pronounced the word as if it stung.

"When are you not?" Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, boy genius. I was never disappointed in you. Not when you insisted on reading when you could hardly stand, not when you broke your leg climbing the church to prove the gardener had stolen the money, not when you ran away from home and it only took me a few hours to find you, not when you refused to come to Mummy's funeral, not when you lay overdosed in the hospital… _never_," Mycroft vehemently swore.

Sherlock was silenced for a moment. Finally, in a quiet embarrassed tone, "You told me caring isn't an advantage."

"Did you think I was incapable of emotion for the boy I took care of for his entire life?" Mycroft laughed humorlessly.

"You don't take care of me," Sherlock whispered. He looked hurt and confused.

"Sherlock, when I look at you, I don't see… you," Mycroft tried to explain. His old face looked ancient for a moment. "I see the infant who refused to eat dinner because it tasted odd- you're the reason I took up cooking. I see the child who wanted to play with real things instead of toys- you're the reason I got all those jobs so you would have proper experiments. I see the teenager who spent his entire time at Uni driving friends away- you're the reason I strove for a high end career, to watch over you and ensure you didn't get kicked out."

"But that was your duty!" Sherlock said, trying to speak normally. "You're my older brother!"

"Then how did you dare to think I wouldn't help you if you had simply _come to me?" _

Dean found himself thinking of Sam and his childhood in the Impala, of weeks at a time when their father wouldn't come home, of teaching him to shoot a gun. He had to swallow back that heavy feeling he had each time he thought of Sam's ruined youth.

Sherlock let John guide him back to the sofa where he sat, breathing heavily and stumbling over words that hardly made sense, "I didn't… I thought I could handle- Moriarty had a gun- the snipers… Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were in danger."

Mycroft had shut his eyes and was again concentrating on relaxation when he suddenly opened his eyes. He stared straight at Dean, "Ah, the other Winchester brother. I apologize heartily for the scene you had to witness. I usually try to maintain a professional air."

"It's _really_ not a problem. I get it. The older brother gig, yeah, I've been doing it myself," Dean said.

"Of course," Mycroft murmured. He looked behind Dean, then, and his eyes widened. Castiel was still standing in the doorway. Mycroft took a step toward him and said in awe, "You must be Castiel, the angel."

"You are the Prophet's brother?" Castiel phrased it as a question.

Mycroft bowed slightly and said, "I've seen aliens, I've met several demons, there are often situations involving otherworldly creatures I find myself mixed in… but never a live angel. The honor is extraordinary and I can assure you all my services are at your disposal."

Castiel simply replied, "It's nice to meet you, too."

"Did you just call Sherlock a Prophet?" Mycroft added.

"Yes- that's what I am," Sherlock spoke. Mycroft inclined his head in Sherlock's direction as acknowledgement but kept his eyes on the angel. He was transfixed. "I'm a Prophet," Sherlock spoke again, louder. Seeking his brother's attention, or (possibly) approval. Dean couldn't tell which.

Mycroft finally took his eyes off Castiel and looked back. "How did you do it?" he asked. "Fake your death?"

"I did it," Castiel answered. "Sherlock was… in Hell when I received orders of reviving the prophet."

"You brought Sherlock back from Hell?"

"He was the Prophet."

Suddenly, Mycroft dropped to one knee before Cas and took his hand in both of his own. He looked slightly ridiculous kneeling on the ground until he spoke the somber words, "Castiel, in exchange for returning my brother back to life, I pledge my soul to you."

"You _what?_" Sherlock demanded.

Dean gaped at Mycroft. "Look, man, I don't think you understand what you're doing." He had given his soul away once, in exchange for Sam. It was a massive thing to do. Even though this wasn't a crossroads demon, a soul was still the last vestiges of your humanity. Pledging it to another being was commitment of the most brutal kind.

Mycroft simply said, "I know _exactly_ what I'm doing."

"I can't hold dominion over souls anymore. I'm losing my powers; Heaven has sealed off their gates in preparation for war against the Serpent," Castiel explained.

Mycroft stood heavily. "Regardless, it's been done. And Serpent this time, is it?" Before Mycroft could further investigate, there was a buzzing noise and he produced a small, sleek cell phone from his inner coat pocket. "Excuse me; there's been an emergency in Tehran. Sherlock, there's a file on Molly's coffee table. It details the amount of demon activity in London over the past two weeks." Mycroft pointed to a thick manila envelope. He turned to leave.

"Wait, Mycroft… Mrs. Hudson's possessed," John spoke from behind Sherlock haltingly, almost reluctant to say the words. He obviously didn't want to ask Mycroft for help.

"Yes, we noticed. I'm afraid we can't do anything without the proper information and even then, we risk possibly aggravating the situation. Perhaps my brother can help?" Mycroft smirked. His earlier emotional outburst toward Sherlock was gone, the Iceman mask returning. "Castiel, sir. Dean, I'll be in touch," he nodded.

Dean watched him carefully dust his coat for nothing and exit the door, umbrella still swaying from his hands. "Your brother's an impressionable man," Dean said.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed vacantly. He was already at the file and Dean was taken aback. He must've moved fast and _quiet_ while Dean was distracted with Mycroft. "Now, can you take your angel out for a walk?"

"Sorry?" Dean frowned.

"Sherlock!" John scolded. "He just means he needs quiet to read through the files."

"If I'm expected to go through all this and be any help to you, you'll need to leave. Now." Sherlock said without looking up.

John shrugged helplessly. "I would defend you, but Mrs. Hudson…" he started.

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. C'mon, Cas," Dean interrupted, rolling his eyes. He supposed every prophet came with their quirks. Chuck could hardly be convinced to do anything sober; Sherlock needed space. He left the flat with Cas, John following him as far as the door to retrieve the violin case and suitcase.

"Do we have to walk?" Cas asked. "I hurt-"

"With your feet, I know. Let's find someplace to sit."

They went a distance until Dean spotted benches in a discreet corner of a park. Cas followed suit and awkwardly sat down, staring straight forward and shifting his eyes. Losing Heaven affected him far more than he let on. He didn't like being in skin that was human. Dean wanted to say something. He knew the feeling of being useless. It was probably worse for someone who was always used to having some control.

"Cas, you know I missed you when you disappeared," Dean began.

"I didn't know."

"Yeah. Well, I did. I was scared, too," Dean confessed. "Everyone around us dies. _Everyone_, Cas. Our parents, Jessica, Jo… Bobby." He stopped and swallowed.

"It must be terrible," Castiel said. He looked uncomfortable.

"I don't know what I'm bitching about," Dean laughed. "You've probably lost more than I have. Look at you; you're millions of years old."

"Just because angels also have problems doesn't mean yours lose significance," Cas said suddenly. He looked up at Dean, the intense glare in his eyes intimidating. "Dean, humans aren't made to suffer this much. And I apologize for having put you through even more suffering."

"No, Cas- I didn't mean to make you apologize- I didn't want you to feel bad. I was trying to…"

Cas didn't take his eyes off Dean, even when Dean floundered for words and looked toward the park in obvious embarrassment and apparent inspiration. "To?" Castiel prompted eventually.

"To tell you I need you. You're vital. It doesn't matter if you have your powers or not, it doesn't matter if you can get into Heaven or not. I want you to know you're the _only_ friend I have left and you're tons more than I am or ever could be. This whole Serpent thing, we would've lost this fight before it even started if you hadn't been there. Sam and I? We wouldn't get anywhere without you. People pledge their _souls_ to you!"

"That was only Mycroft; the circumstance is unprecedented."

"But he did it because you're important. I'm not."

"Dean, you're important. The world would have ended long ago if not for you."

"But this isn't _about_ me. It's about _you_. You're everything," Dean hesitated, considering his next works carefully. He wanted to get the full point across to Cas without being overbearing. "If we hadn't found you, I don't think I could've gone on. I didn't tell Sam but… I wasn't doing so well."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Cas was still staring at Dean, his tone concerned and disapproving. Dean briefly marveled over how long the angel could go without blinking. "What's wrong?"

"I don't want to do this anymore. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of losing friends and worrying about Sammy and running around all the time because someone's in trouble. But the worst part is that I can't even stop now. Like I tried with Ben and Lisa, to fit into a normal life- _I can't!_ I know there are monsters out there; we can't kill them all. It's a curse and we're bound to it forever! Fuck!" Dean cursed, striking his hand against his palm and standing. He turned away from Castiel in anger. "Fuck, I'm not supposed to be talking about myself! This was supposed to be about you! Look at me, self-centered, arrogant- it's no wonder you don't like us. We don't deserve to be liked."

Dean felt Castiel's hand on his shoulder and started to find the angel so close to him. He hadn't expected to be touched; he particularly hadn't expected Castiel to take the effort to reach out. His blue eyes held eternity when their gazes locked.

"I like you," Cas said.

"I was the first human you really came in any sort of contact with other than your vessel. I'm a pretty shitty standard for humanity," Dean tried to smile but found himself instead blinking back tears rapidly. He would've liked to break eye contact but there really was nowhere else to look. "Of course after me, everyone seems likable."

"I don't like everyone. I like you," Cas corrected him.

Dean shut up for a moment. Then he threw his arms around Cas and hugged him. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."

Dean knew Castiel didn't properly get human normality; he wasn't thinking Cas would actually reach his arms around as well. Yet that's what he did. Dean pressed his chin against the familiar trench coat, the fabric worn but smooth. For someone who very rarely appreciated touching someone in a non-sexual sense, Dean found himself comforted and relaxed for what seemed the first time in months. He leaned into the angel, giving up his worries in exchange for the warmth of the embrace.

Dean heaved a great sigh, feeling himself press into Castiel, and finally leaned away. He was smiling now, dry-eyed. "That felt great."

"Is this the part where we kiss?" Cas inquired.

"_Kiss_?" Dean echoed. His eyes widened. "_KISS_?"

"Isn't that what we're supposed to do? To make you feel better?" He cocked his head to the side, confused.

"No, dude, you're supposed to kiss someone you really, really like. Or someone you want to get into bed with," Dean explained.

Castiel paused for a moment to assimilate this information into his mind then repeated, "So then, do we kiss now?"

"You're really actually serious about this," Dean said with wonderment. He took a step back. "Cas, are you _gay_?"

Cas frowned. "Gay? I don't think I follow…"

"It's when a guy likes, well, guys."

"I never thought of it that way, of liking males or females. Actually, I have never liked anyone before; angels aren't supposed to. But now, I just like people. Their minds. Their personalities. Your gender has nothing to do with my attraction towards you."

"Yeah, I think that's pansexual," Dean observed.

"Is kissing only done as a precursor to procreation?"

"No, that's not the reason. I mean, people kiss with no intention of making babies." Dean shrugged.

"So is this a problem? Are you not allowed to kiss me because you aren't gay?" Cas asked.

Dean chuckled nervously. "I don't know if I feel that way about you. You're my best friend and all…" Dean trailed off. He really didn't have any good reason not to, other than the insistence that he was straight. Finally, he settled on saying, "I would probably not enjoy it very much."

"Because I don't have your kissing experience?" Cas looked disappointed. His eyebrows rose. "Oh, it's because you don't find my vessel attractive. That's important, isn't it? To find someone beautiful?"

"No! No, it's not like that! You're handsome, dude, you did a good job picking out a vessel for yourself. It's more that… I've never done it before. So it would be weird."

"Dean, I've never been in the body of a human before. I've never felt strong emotions before. I've never been prepared to confront the Serpent before. This is all 'weird' but sometimes I find myself liking it. I thought it was a part of being human to try new things, even the ones that are weird, before making a choice on whether or not you like it."

Dean lowered his lips in consideration. "That's actually a really good argument," he muttered. Cas smiled and seemed to wait. "Okay, what about Sam?"

Now Cas looked even more confused. "_What_ about Sam?"

"Well, how would he feel if we hooked up?"

"I don't know. I didn't think Sam would have any qualms to the two of us kissing. Why do you think he would?"

Dean found himself conflicted. This was Castiel. And Castiel was his best friend and the only person he could rely on… as an angel, he wouldn't understand the entire concept of things getting weird once you got involved physically (especially with someone who shared similar anatomy). But Dean really didn't want to disappoint him, even if it made him uncomfortable. It was really a pity Cas didn't just let a topic drop when it got weird. He couldn't take hints. "I think I'd rather that I didn't. It's not cool."

"For you? Or for others? Is it a shameful act?" Cas suddenly turned his back on Dean and began walking. "Maybe we should just go back now. Surely Sherlock could handle the two of us if we stayed very quiet. And we will stay quiet."

"Wait- Cas-" Dean called, starting a quick walk to keep up with the other. "Wait, I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay. You don't have to… justify yourself."

Dean began reaching his hand out to stop him. "But I don't want you thinking-"

"Dean, IT'S OKAY!" Cas snapped.

Dean drew his hand back. That ever present childlike quality in Cas was temporarily replaced with something much darker. Just that single glance at Castiel's face reminded Dean that while he may be an angel who was naïve at love and sex, he was also a fierce warrior- the single handed inspiration for rebellion in Heaven who had killed much _much_ longer than Dean had even been alive. Someone who had felt the force of assuming God, of being Leviathans, of Lucifer's wrath. It was the look of a very old, very offended creature who was in retreat to lick his wounds.

"I'm sorry," Dean muttered, scurrying behind him.

If Castiel heard, he didn't say anything. Instead he replied, "We should be focusing on the matter going on instead of silly games. If the Serpent really is planning to attack Heaven, which seems likely because the Prophet said it, then they'll want to find someone who already knows how the place works. I should stay indoors, well-protected and covered in sigils."

"We'll keep you protected," Dean promised. "Me and Sam. And the others. We won't let them get you."

"Yes, thank you, but I think I should be fine. I understand if you're _embarrassed_ of me," he answered through clenched teeth.

It felt as if Dean had been punched through the gut. "Cas! That's not-"

"Sherlock and John seem perfectly acceptable substitutes."

Dean knew he'd made some kind of massive mistake. He wanted to put things right but Castiel was moving faster and they were already at Molly's street. And he was reluctant to touch the angel again. He had hurt his feelings. There were consequences. "Damnit! Fucking listen to me!"

Castiel whirled around in the middle of the street, his trench coat billowing out. Dean stopped in surprise. "Don't. Pretend. You. Care." Castiel snarled each word. "I'm _not_ a child and I'm _not_ helpless."

"I do care!" Dean insisted.

Castiel began walking faster, almost at a jog. He reached the apartment before Dean even became aware that he was leaving. Dean ran after him, determined not to let him get away. _Stupid, arrogant, inconsiderate,_ he berated himself the entire time.

He followed Castiel in where he was already knocking on the second door. "Cas- just listen -"

John Watson flung the door open. "Oh, good you guys are here. Sherlock found something. I think you're going to want to see this."

"Prophet, what is it?" Castiel asked, entering the flat. Sherlock was at the dining table, hunched over a laptop.

Dean quietly followed Cas, burning inside to have time alone with him but already anticipating whatever Sherlock's discovery was. The sooner this mess was over…

"Mycroft left me a CD that detailed every family in London who was suspected of harboring demons in the past two weeks. It's a huge amount of people, even by normal infestation standards. Mycroft has given me recordings by CCTV of the day each family was visited by… by whatever visited them. Look," Sherlock instructed them.

Dean and Cas crowded around his computer chair. In the first black and white video, a young man was laughing as he exited the apartment building of a well-dressed middle-aged woman. He kissed her casually. After the woman shut the door, he shimmered and all his features ran together in a mess for a moment in something that was definitely not human. It resembled a candle losing substance and running into wax. Then he regained form but looked like the middle-aged woman he had just left behind.

"Shifter," Dean breathed. But shifter's didn't have such a clean transformation.

"Shh," Sherlock hissed, redirecting their attention just as the video cut to another camera. The same middle-aged lady was entering a house Dean found familiar. It was the Archer family's house. She went in and there was a time cut to an hour later when she came out. Mrs. Archer (recognizable from her morgue photographs) was bidding her farewell, it seemed, crying and waving.

This time, the middle-aged lady turned into another figure Dean recognized: Sharon Archer, the younger daughter of the Cult Suicide family. The camera cut again to the little girl ringing the doorbell of an apartment complex.

Sherlock paused the video and said, "This has been the pattern so far; it goes to each new home, apparently grants them temptation and inserts a demon in their body, then assumes their shape and finds another victim. Oh, thank you _so_ much Mycroft."

"We even found the man it used to bait Mrs. Hudson, as well as the old woman it later went to under the shape of Mrs. Hudson," John added somberly.

"And so the plot thickens: not only does it grant you your wishes, it also is capable of _becoming_ you. Gentlemen, we're facing one hell of an enemy here. It's forgone strength in favor of the more dangerous option: cunning. Now we need to find out how to stop it."


	15. Chapter 15: You Fuck It Up, You Fix It

Molly decided the best thing that had ever happened to her was meeting Sam Winchester. Initially she was hesitant to bring him to work, but he was persuasive and a complete gentleman. And Sam did this look thing where he would wrinkle his forehead, his lips parted slightly, hair falling into his eyes; this expectant expression on his face… Molly called it the puppy dog look and it had already worked on her three times.

The first time had been when Sam asked to accompany her to work. To be fair, he'd cornered her early in the morning and handed her a mug of coffee before making the request. The second time, they'd been in the morgue for four hours consecutively, doing autopsies together and examining the Cult Suicides (though _they_ knew it was murder; Molly loved keeping the secret). Sam had asked if she wanted to go out for lunch and Molly had insisted she had too much work to catch up on with her absences. He'd pulled the face on her and she instead found herself sitting in a café, talking about how much she wanted a cat.

And the third time had been the greatest. Her shift over, Molly was preparing to head home when Sam asked her if she was with anyone.

At first, flustered, Molly answered, "No, I'm not… I just- no."

Then Sam had done the face and leaned forward and kissed her. Molly had wanted to fall to the floor, clutching her purse and babbling incoherently. His warm fingers weaved through her long brown hair, passionate but gentle. It was a mystery she had managed to stay on her two legs. And now he was holding her hand and walking her home.

Yes, Sam was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

"It's going to be a mess at the flat," Molly groaned. "Sherlock never bothers to clean up and I don't think we have any food left with Dean… sorry, I mean he's your brother-"

"He's a slob and he eats incessantly, I get it," Sam laughed. Oh, his American accent was brilliant; it made her irrationally happy. Molly had caught herself trying to roll her words like him a few times at the morgue. "Maybe we could pick something up?" He suggested.

"Yeah, um, sure. There's a Chinese place near my street…"

"Perfect. And I'll help you clean up afterward, don't worry about it. We can probably enlist Cas to do dishes. If he's not busy helping out with the Serpent thing."

Molly sighed. "Let's hope it ends soon."

"None of them ever end soon enough," Sam muttered darkly. He cleared his throat and said in a lighter tone, "But hey, this time we have a prophet, an angel, a doctor, a detective inspector, a mortician, and whatever Mycroft is."

"And we've got the Winchesters," Molly reminded him. He never gave himself credit, it seemed. Even when they were dissecting bodies, he'd watch her in awe and mention how fantastic it was that she wasn't squeamish and Molly would point out he wasn't either.

"Well, I wanted to say sorry about earlier. I mean, I didn't mean to throw myself at you like that without permission," Sam apologized.

"No, it's… I should be thanking you!" Molly assured him.

They stopped and ordered Chinese food where the woman knew Molly by name. They talked the entire time about silly things and serious things. She told him all about Moriarty and how she had felt utterly used by him; he mentioned Ruby and the same feeling he'd felt. They discussed possibilities of the Serpent's physical form. He joked about his height.

When their take out was ready, Sam took the bag in one hand and again took Molly's hand with the other. Outside, they drew closer together as shelter from the cold. Outside her flat, he kissed her again, soft and short but nevertheless intimate. Molly didn't want to go inside where everyone would be waiting, even though it was _her_ flat. She wanted to stay alone outside with Sam.

But she opened the door anyway and Sam followed her in. No matter how many times she saw it, Molly was still getting used to having so many people in her living quarters. Someone was always on the sofa. Coats that weren't hers were always hanging on the rack. The flat seemed cramped but also somehow cozier.

"I brought chow!" Sam announced to the well-lit living room.

"Shhh!" John hissed at them, holding a finger up to his lips. He said into his phone, "Okay, Harry, how many more times do I have to apologize? I swear- I really did forget to call you!"

Sherlock and Dean were hunched over Sherlock's laptop screen (Molly wondered if that thing ever got rest, between bouts of research and porn). Dean looked up instantly, face troubled and not in the least delighted about the prospect of food. Castiel was sitting moodily on the sofa, staring off somewhere. He didn't even react when Sam and Molly came in.

Sam quietly set the food downon the kitchen counter- mindful of John Watson- and began pulling plates and forks out of shelves and drawers. Molly observed him for a moment then went to her room to change out of her lab coat and work clothes.

Everyone was still quiet when she returned to Sam's side, helping him serve. The others were busy in their work and watching John struggle with his sister as he insisted, "I already told you, I'm at a friend's! Don't go around Baker Street, I'm not there!" A pause, then, "Thanks. Thanks very much. I did have friends other than him, you know."

Sherlock's eyes flickered up momentarily. He tilted his head to the food, waved with his fingers, and mouthed clearly, "Bye bye, Harry!"

John rolled his eyes and continued pacing in the room. "I'll call you every single day; yes, every morning and night. I'm not three years old; you don't have to keep checking up on me. _Yes!_ Okay, I'm going to hang up now."

John finally heaved a sigh of relief. "She thought I was passed out on a street in a ditch somewhere because I hadn't rang her up in three days. Honestly."

"Yes, but we wouldn't put that past you, John," Sherlock commented wryly.

"Shut up," John replied. "Now, _food_! Thank you two so much!"

"And you will not believe what we found out about this Serpent fucker: it changes shape," Dean directed his words toward Sam. "Like a shifter except with maybe 1 second in between and no residue."

"No way," Sam moved forward until he could see the laptop screen, bending down next to Sherlock for a better view. Sherlock turned his neck and stared at him, annoyed at having to share. He inhaled deeply. Probably holding some part of his temper in check.

"Yes way. Sherlock and I have been checking every camera feed and trying to figure out _why_ it chooses its victims and if it has any weakness. So far, every house it went into received a demon and a wish come true, then it turned into that person and wandered around until it came to another house," Dean said before taking a huge forkful of noodles.

"In one particular instance, it passed over an apartment building _twice_ while in the form of an old man before finally going inside and dealing with a young woman. Why did it wait that long? Was it looking for directions?" Sherlock wondered out loud.

"Oh, and I met _Mycroft_ today," Dean added, turning to Sam.

Sam cleared his throat and asked, "Who?" Molly smiled to herself; at least he wasn't acting as obvious as last time.

"My brother," Sherlock answered. "Don't worry; we can trust him… somewhat."

Molly took a plateful of food to the angel, who looked confused when she offered it to him.

"Not hungry?" She asked him.

"Is that the empty sensation in my stomach?" Castiel returned.

Molly smiled; he was like a child. "Yes, that means you're hungry."

"Are you okay, Cas?" Sam asked, noticing now that he was sitting alone on the sofa.

"Yes, fine, other than being useless and unwanted," Cas's voice rose an octave.

"Yeah, he's been making comments like that the entire evening and he won't answer any of our questions," John added. "Is that normal behavior for him?"

"Dean?" Sam turned to his brother. "What happened?"

"I don't know. He probably wants to help but doesn't know how," Dean said without taking his eyes off his food or the laptop screen.

"Yes, that's probably it," Castiel added, accepting the plate from Molly's still outstretched hands. "I don't know how to do anything."

"That's _not_ what I _said_!"

"But that's what you meant."

"No, it isn't. If you had listened to me-"

"There wasn't anything to listen to!"

"Okay, what's going on here?" Sam interrupted Dean and Cas's ping pong exchange. "Clearly you two are having some kind of issue. Can we discuss it properly like adults? Dean, yes?"

"I don't have an issue," Dean grumbled.

"Then maybe they aren't ready to discuss it properly like adults," Sherlock said, finally standing up from his chair. Molly was surprised that he was being the mediator. "Maybe they should talk about it like children. Castiel should be taken to one room and interrogated by Sam and John, and I will stay here and question Dean."

"This is ridiculous," Dean said. "I'm not doing that."

"Nor I. There isn't anything I should be interrogated about," Cas said. He was staring at his plate in disdain and misunderstanding, almost as if unsure if he should begin eating or throw it at Dean's head.

"It's obviously nice that you both think so, but we're gonna do it anyway," Sam decided. He went to Castiel and pointed to Molly's spare room. "C'mon, buddy. We're going to have us a heart-to-heart, okay? Bring your food."

"Sam, this is stupid," Dean warned but John was already guiding Cas into the other room and shutting the door on Dean's words. Alone with Molly and Sherlock, Dean sat down and calmly began eating again.

"Okay, look," Sherlock started walking around as he spoke, "you and Castiel were fine, then you went out, and then you came back in and something was wrong. Something happened between the two of you and I don't care to know what it was. But Castiel doesn't understand how to cooperate unless his feelings are calmed down and we _need_ his help."

_Oh_, Molly thought. That's why he was mediating.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean said evenly. "He's helping the best he can."

"Really?" Sherlock exhaled and came to a stop above Dean's chair. "When I asked him a list of things he could still do with his celestial powers, he replied 'Ask Dean and he would tell you I can't do anything.' That isn't helping. We can't have him behaving like that, okay? I don't know what happened but you're clearly the only one who can sort it."

"I didn't do anything," Dean narrowed his eyes. "And if you're accusing me of something…"

Sherlock leaned down until he was eye to eye with Dean, "I'm not accusing you, Dean. You already know what it is you've done. Put your ego aside and patch it up; we have bigger things."

"Ego?" Dean snarled. "What the fuck are you talking about! This has nothing to do with _my_ ego!"

"I don't care what it has to do with! You made a problem and pissed off our angel. _Now fix it!"_ Sherlock hissed, eyes widening and flashing dangerously.

"Is that the new rule? You fuck it up, you fix it? You're not king, Sherlock."

"No, I'm not. But if anyone in this flat was enough close to royalty, it would be Castiel."

Dean looked like he wanted to say something else, possibly throw a punch at Sherlock or worse. But he clenched his fists and moved the chair back from Sherlock. The scraping sound grated slightly at Molly's nerves. Dean, it seemed, had no intentions of answering.

Sherlock straightened with a self-satisfied smile. He now came toward Molly. "How was work?" he asked.

"Oh, it was-"

"I have a request. Could you maybe not mention, err, the thing you saw that day… with Castiel…"

Realization dawned on Molly. When she'd come back after shopping. She had put it out of her mind. And since neither Sherlock nor Cas had mentioned it, Molly had no intention of doing so. "Oh! Yes- I mean, no! I'll forget it ever happened."

Sherlock smiled at inclined his head closer to her. He inhaled deeply toward her throat. Molly frowned, wondering what he was doing until his voice whispered in her ear, "Kissing Sam, are we now?"

Molly's neck snapped back in alarm. "How did you…?"

"Never mind that. It was about halfway a guess, but glad to see I was right," he chuckled.

Before he could go on, the spare room's door opened and John stepped out with Cas in tow. "He's bloody impossible to talk to. He just keeps saying Dean hurt his feelings but he doesn't care about it anymore."

"Of course he cares!" Sherlock pulled his eyebrows together and turned to glare at Dean. "See? Castiel doesn't even _know_ he's acting differently. And this moron thinks nothing is wrong."

"Because nothing is wrong!" Dean defended himself.

"Some best friend," Sherlock scoffed.

Sam stepped out behind Cas. "Dude, just apologize for whatever you did," he said tiredly. "Whatever you're fighting over seriously cannot be worth Cas's attitude."

Dean slammed his hand down hard on the table, grimacing. "Okay! Okay, you _know_ what? FINE!" He yelled. He stood from his chair so forcefully that it flew out from behind him, hitting the wall and leaving a dent that made Molly scowl. He pushed John to a side and went straight to Cas, nearly stomping on the floor.

He grabbed Cas by the shoulders and slammed him back against the wall, the collar bunched up in his fists. Molly was so sure he was going to hit the angel and she prepared herself mentally. Instead, something she never would have expected happened. Dean leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Cas, kissing him full on the lips.

Molly's jaw dropped open. She wanted to look away and give them a bit of privacy but found her eyes glued to the scene. She couldn't even blink. Molly could see a similar reaction on John and Sam's face. Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows.

Dean pulled away and turned to glare at all of them in turn. "You fuckers happy now?" He snapped and returned to the kiss.

"I…" Sam started but gave up halfway through his sentence, apparently not sure what his reaction was. He just gaped as his brother and Castiel finally parted from each other. Dean returned to peck Cas's lips one more time before he let go of the trench coat. The first time he'd done it for everyone, the second time for Cas, and this time for his own edification.

"Our happiness depends on whether this is going to improve Castiel's mood," Sherlock pointed out, heedless that everyone else in the room was shocked utterly into silence.

"Ask Cas," Dean growled, walking back to his chair and leaving Castiel against the wall.

"Well, Castiel?" Sherlock fixed his eyes on the flustered, red-faced angel.

Castiel ignored Sherlock's question. "Dean, did you like it?"

"Maybe. A little," Dean confessed.

Castiel's lips curved upward a smile.

"That answers it! Now, can you _please_ tell me what you can still do with whatever heavenly powers you may have left?" Sherlock demanded.

John headed toward Molly as Cas began talking. He asked in a low whisper, "Did that really just fucking happen?"

Molly shrugged, "I think it did but nobody's reacting properly."

"How are we supposed to react?" John frowned.

"I'm not actually sure," she hedged. "Maybe this is the right way to react."

"Okay, wait!" Sam said loudly, cutting off Cas's list of things he could still do. "_That_ was your problem? Cas wanted you to kiss him?"

"Oh, Sam, can we get over it?" Sherlock asked, clearly annoyed Sam felt it necessary to interrupt Cas's intonation.

"I KNEW IT!" Sam boomed, his tall frame shaking with laughter. "Oh, I _knew_ it!"

"Sam, shut up," Dean said from his chair without enthusiasm. "I didn't think I was into him."

John suddenly snorted. Something set him cracking up as well.

Sam just continued laughing. A minute later, Dean joined in. Fork halfway to his mouth, he couldn't stop the chuckles from escaping his lips. Molly glanced beside her and was surprised to see John covering his mouth with his hands, trying not to let his laughter get any louder. Cas started, too, sliding down against the wall. His laugh was almost goofy, foreign. Had Castiel ever laughed before?

Watching the others, Molly infectiously giggled and then again. Soon, all of their laughter progressed to almost hysterical proportions until she was forced to sit on the floor and just get it out of her system, wrapping arms around her stomach where she could feel an ab workout coming on.

It was borderline magical, that in the midst of an apocalyptic situation, you could still laugh and fall in love and share moments with the people you liked. Like humans had found a way around even the worst situations. Serpent or not, you could still smile.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, watching them all, "Oh bother," he muttered.

It struck Molly that Sherlock probably looked like the only sane person in the flat right now. The thought only made her laugh harder.


	16. Chapter 16: A Small Brick House

Lestrade jerked awake in the darkness to the sound of his phone ringing. For an instant, he thought it must be an emergency at the station and scrambled out of the covers for his phone. Then he recognized the number flashing on his screen and the picture of a drugged man in a blanket. Sighing, he slunk back into bed with the infernal ringing device and answered tiredly, "Hello?"

"Lestrade?" Sherlock's voice sounded panicked. Lestrade found himself not minding very much; better a panicked Sherlock at three in the morning than no Sherlock at all.

Lestrade roused himself and tried to sound a bit more alert, "Sherlock, what is it?"

"Can you come over to Molly's? Now?" He asked urgently. By now, Lestrade was well aware of the many kinds of voices Sherlock spoke in, from drug-addled to excited to deducing.

Lestrade could hear voices talking behind Sherlock. "What is it?"

"A lead Sam found. With the Serpent. We're going to need your help."

"Sherlock, you realize what bloody time it is? And that I have to be at the station tomorrow morning by 7?" He stifled a yawn but got out of bed anyway. Sherlock didn't normally use words like _need your help_ and certainly not in that order. He wouldn't be able to sleep now anyway. The thought that Sherlock was alive and having some kind of demon problem had been troubling him already. And after this conversation, there would be no returning to unconscious.

"Call in sick. There's something important to deal with here," Sherlock answered.

Lestrade considered protesting but then he realized Sherlock had already hung up. Instead, he glared at the phone and refrained from chucking it into the wall. He shivered when he stretched his sore back muscles; the tiny flat he was renting until things got a bit normal had no heating. Lestrade dressed quickly and grabbed his things to leave. He paused at the pack of cigarettes he kept; he'd relapsed when his divorce was finalizing and now hesitated to give them up again. They were a nice distraction sometimes. Resisting the temptation, he turned away and went out.

It took a while to find a cab. By the time Lestrade finally arrived at Molly's, he was feeling a lot more awake and prepared to handle anything Sherlock threw at him. He avoided calling in to the station yet; with luck, the situation could be contained and he could still make work on time.

Sam Winchester opened the door for him and immediately began apologizing profusely, "I didn't think he was going to actually call you, so sorry you had to wake up, I swear I would've stopped him if I had known. John's sleeping and he's usually the one who handles him."

"Never mind that, I'm here now. What's going on?" Lestrade asked.

Sam talked as he led him to the dining table where Molly and Sherlock were already sitting. "Well, we're all doing a literally constant search of the Serpent-" Lestrade frowned at the word but didn't comment "-and so far we've seen a pattern. It goes in, grants them their wish, and turns into them."

"It does _what_?" Lestrade could feel a headache coming on that would undoubtedly last the rest of the day. Luckily, Molly brought him a warm mug of tea. He gratefully took it and swallowed the warm liquid.

"Sam, you're not exactly convincing," Sherlock muttered. He looked up at Lestrade and started talking, "The mythological Serpent seems to be working with precision: it finds a target, sometimes belatedly, and enters their home. Often, there is more than one person inside. No one has kicked it out so far. Once inside, it seems to ask them what it is that they want. Then the demon thing happens. Immediately afterward, no matter what time, it exits and turns into one of the people from inside. This has happened without fail each time- except once. Follow?"

Lestrade didn't, but he nodded.

Sherlock went on, "In one particular instance, the Serpent exited a house and didn't change. This is vital. Why didn't it transform? Why would it break the routine, especially when it returned back to the pattern after that house?"

"And that's why you need my help? Sherlock, I seriously don't know why it's doing all that," Lestrade told him. He wrapped his fingers around the mug and stared as Sherlock made a noise of annoyance somewhere between a groan and a muttered curse. Lestrade was almost surprised; he could've sworn he caught a 'fucking hell' coming from the detective's lips, far stronger than his normal insults. The Winchesters were obviously not good influences. An almost paternal concern came over him.

"We need your help because we need to go talk to whoever's in that house," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "What d'you want _me_ to do?"

"Well, you're a Detective Inspector. Nobody would blink twice if you knocked on someone's door and asked to talk to the occupants."

"You want me to go and talk to someone about a wish-granting, form-changing Serpent? What am I supposed to say? '_Hello, my insane genius friend wants to know if you were recently approached by a genie'?_ Sound about right?"

Sherlock looked shocked. He blinked twice and repeated, "Insane genius friend?"

Lestrade huffed, "Oh, don't get insulted. I'm not saying you're insane. That's probably what they'll think though."

"Friend?" Sherlock echoed.

Lestrade realized he'd never explicitly told or implied to Sherlock that they were friends. What was he supposed to say now? "Sherlock, when I get out of bed at three o clock and am alone willing to help someone about… demons-" Lestrade stumbled over the word "-you can be damn sure I'm doing it out of friendship and not the public good."

"You won't be alone," Sam broke in before Sherlock could reply. "Tactical decision. You're gonna need someone who understands the situation. We don't want Dean going because he's, well-"

"An insensitive and offending individual," Sherlock offered.

"Sherlock." Molly's tone sounded dangerously similar to John's when he was being reprimanding.

Sam just shrugged. "So I figured I'd go with you. If you don't mind, of course."

"Not at all. Why not you, Sherlock? Thought you'd hate to miss a mystery like this," Lestrade observed.

Sherlock made a face, partly disappointed and partly mad. "Frankly, I'd love to go. But if anyone reads the papers or watches telly, they'll recognize me as someone who committed suicide and then we'll get nowhere at all."

"Makes sense," Lestrade admitted.

"We haven't told any of the others yet. I know Dean's going to insist he go along with us, but we can get him to stay if we use Cas as bait. John's going to be fine with Sherlock here. So it's going to be the two of us and we have to get as much information out of whomever it is we meet. But it's also a fact that Dean's not going to let me go alone- which is why you'll be there. Plus, you know, being a DI and all," Sam explained.

"It's a woman," Sherlock suddenly interjected. He looked up from his laptop, eyes wide. He swiveled the laptop so Lestrade and Sam could see the blown up driver's license. He read out loud, "Selena Corral."

Selena Corral had deathly pale skin, frizzy red hair, and an eyebrow ring.

"Okay, does she live alone?" Sam asked.

"From what records are available online, she lives alone. And judging from her record and all the ASBO's she's received, I'd say she's a tough girl. Take Molly with you," Sherlock added.

"Wait, what?" Molly looked up from her chair where she had put her head down. "Take me where?"

"To meet Miss Selena," Sherlock reclaimed his laptop and kept talking, "She'll feel more comfortable if the pair is accompanied by a harmless female. She may even be more prone to open up with you there as opposed to dealing with a six foot four giant and a Detective Inspector."

"Harmless female?" Lestrade scoffed. He'd seen her in action at the morgue, hauling around dead bodies and cutting them open without a second thought.

"You didn't even ask, Sherlock," Molly complained.

"Do I have to ask? It's obvious you won't mind going with Sam. Probably prefer it, even," Sherlock shrugged her off but not before Lestrade caught the glare Molly shot his way.

"When are we supposed to do this, then?" Lestrade quickly changed the topic. "Now? At four in the morning?"

"As much as I'd like to catch her off guard at this time, she'd probably refuse to cooperate. No, we need to go early that it interferes with her morning schedule, but not early enough that it annoys or disturbs her," Sherlock frowned, trying to find the perfect time.

"Could I maybe check in at the station and come back during my break or something? The Cult Suicides are still officially unsolved and I have a load of paperwork. You can ring me up when you get the perfect timing," Lestrade said.

"Hm, you're right, they are unsolved. Should we frame someone to close the case and get you some free time?" Sherlock offered.

"Sherlock! I'm a bit appalled you'd even suggest that!" Even though that really would have been nice and Lestrade certainly knew some people who deserved punishment.

"How about nine?" Molly asked. "It's when I usually got up at weekends."

Everyone turned to look at Sherlock for his approval. And he nodded once curtly, granting it. "But maybe go to her house early and see if you can find anything interesting or unusual."

"Sherlock, we've done this sort of stuff before. You don't have to detail it out," Sam said.

Sherlock's jaw quivered as he clenched his teeth. "Just get there, all right?"

"And that doesn't leave me enough time to get to the station. Should I just wait at my flat for your call then?" Lestrade asked.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's freezing in your flat and your bed's giving you a backache and you'll end up smoking that entire pack you keep since your relapse. Meanwhile, Molly's got an empty sofa you could continue your sleep on."

"How do you figure all that out?" Lestrade was amazed. Sherlock had already returned to watching a video on his laptop. Lestrade was pretty sure those were live CCTV feeds; that was breaking about thirteen different laws.

Molly rose and took Lestrade's empty cup, saying "I'm sorry. John's in my room and Dean and Cas are sharing the spare one; the only place left really is the sofa."

"Oh, it's okay. I'm used to it," Lestrade muttered, not volunteering that he had slept on the sofa for two months before finally splitting with his wife permanently.

"I'll get you a blanket," she added, leading him out of the dining room. Sam and Sherlock had apparently gone back to scanning for irregularities.

Lestrade settled on the sofa and waited for Molly's return. His body craved nicotine and Lestrade instead chewed his thumbnail, trying to ignore the empty lacking sensation. He regretted leaving the pack behind now. Especially since Sherlock had brought it to the forefront of his mind with is bloody deductions. Molly came back and Lestrade took the chance to distract himself with conversation. "How's he doing about this whole thing? I know I took it pretty hard. Demons and ghosts and angels," Lestrade shook his head.

"You know how he is. Getting manic about it. Sam said he'd take first watch, but Sherlock insists on double checking the videos."

"And you?" Lestrade asked. He couldn't help but notice the disheveled hair, the dark circles under her eyes, a certain gaunt quality in her face he had seen before on the deeply stressed.

Molly replied vaguely, "You know, I'm holding on. Managing."

"Why don't Sherlock and John move back to Baker Street? Give you all a bit more room to sleep. Less of a burden on you. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will manage not to gossip about something as important as Sherlock being alive."

Molly's eyes flicked quickly to the dining room, assuring that they weren't being overheard, before saying, "Mrs. Hudson's one of the demons. They can't go back now, it's too dangerous."

Lestrade sighed, troubled. He hadn't known their landlady extensively but he'd met her a couple of times. She'd been nice to him at the Christmas gathering, sympathized about his troubled marriage. Once, after a case, he'd dropped John off and she'd been quick to scold the doctor about not finishing his lunch before rushing off. It was discouraging to hear she'd been sucked into this mess. "Let's hope we manage to fix this a bit tomorrow."

Molly smiled, "Good night, Greg."

* * *

><p>Selena Corral's residence was a small brick house nestled in a sea of similar houses. Sam had already scouted around and decided it was decidedly normal. No EMF readings or sulfur smells, no cold spots or ley lines (whatever those were, Lestrade was still unsure). Sherlock had made a few deductions regarding the safety of the office before settling in the car to wait. Now they stood in front of her door, Lestrade and Molly shoulder to shoulder, Sam behind them. Lestrade rang the bell.<p>

Footsteps. Locks and bolts being scraped open; Lestrade counted five. He turned back to look at Sam, sure the other man was noticing the same thing. Finally, it pulled open. Still connected by the chain, a sliver of green eyes and red hair peered out at them.

"Whaddya want?" Selena asked. Her voice was gruff and direct.

"Selena Corral?" Lestrade asked redundantly.

"Who the fuck wants to know?" She retorted.

"Miss Corral, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm with Miss Hooper from St. Barts. We were wondering if we could talk to you for a moment," Lestrade said in his most calm voice, holding out his badge.

"Inspector? Shit, sorry about that. I'm not in any kind of trouble, alright? I'm clean, I've been staying out of any messy business," she said.

"Oh, no, you're not in any kind of trouble," Molly Hopper said. Her voice sounded fragile and soft next to Selena's. "We just need to ask some questions."

Selena hesitated before asking, "Who's the tall fellow behind youse?"

"Sam Winchester, I drove them here," Sam said. It was the agreed upon story.

There was a pause before she the door shut and opened chainless. Lestrade turned to give the car behind them a look. Telling Sherlock they were going in now. Selena eyed them all warily as they passed her, gaze lingering on Sam suspiciously. She was in an oversized jumper and pajamas, red hair unbrushed and open. The eyebrow ring glinted in the light as she held the door open for them to enter. "You want something to drink?" She asked, offering them to sit.

"Er, no thanks." Lestrade replied quickly, taking a seat. He stuffed his badge back into his pocket and took out the picture they had printed out earlier of the woman the Serpent had been when it had approached Selena's house. "We've received reports from this area of families being harassed by a stranger. Have you seen her before?"

Selena snatched the paper out of Lestrade's hands. She frowned studying it. Lestrade was sure she'd reply in the affirmative. Instead, she held the paper back out for him and said evenly, "Never seen her before."

"Sorry, you've never seen her before?" Lestrade repeated her words.

"Yeah, sorry. Not much help, am I?" She chuckled.

Lestrade and Molly exchanged confused glances. "We have conclusive evidence that this woman has been to your house," Lestrade said.

Selena looked nervous now. "Might be mistaken," she mumbled.

"We might have to recheck the camera's then. We thought she stopped by your house…" Lestrade trailed off as Selena started talking.

"Yeah, she rang the bell. I turned her away."

"Then why did you lie about it the first time?" Sam demanded. "You said you'd never seen her before."

"I don't want to get mixed up in anything, alright?" She swallowed audibly, turning to glare at him. "I don't want to get arrested or something because I talked to a bloody serial killer."

"We're not going to arrest you," Lestrade tried to assure her. "You're not under examination, you're under _no_ pressure. We just want to know about the woman, what she said, how she acted."

Selena avoided meeting their eyes.

"Selena," Molly began. "There are people's lives at stake here. Something about that woman was very wrong- and I'm sure you know it, too. She wasn't human. And that's all we're trying to do here. Catch her. You can help us."

Selena still didn't look up, but she said, "When I was a kid, my parents took me camping. They wanted to get me out of the city. We… set up a tent and then we heard noises. They tried to tell me it was just an animal, no big deal, but then my mother went out to check on it. My dad and I were looking from inside the tent. Something attacked her. It was a human, but _not_ a human." Selena glanced up then. Her eyes had tears in them. She didn't look at anyone specifically, but at the wall, remembering the memory and willing the others to understand.

"My dad got me out of there as soon as he could, but we went looking with rangers the next morning. We found her body. That not-human-something had turned my mother into _food._ The rangers said it must've been an animal. But that's bullshit! We saw it. And that wasn't an animal. The worst part is we never even caught whatever did it," Selena sniffed and added, "You're probably thinking I'm crazy."

"Not at all. That was a wendigo you and your parents encountered," Sam told her. "I'm sorry about your mom."

Selena stared at him. Lestrade thought she must've been shocked that someone actually believed her. "A… wendigo?" She asked cautiously.

"Yes. They're generally found in the woods and they… well, they have a taste for human flesh. I'm incredibly sorry you had to go through that. We've fought and killed one of them before."

"Are you lot just taking the piss?" She demanded, looking angry now. "Because I'm not just telling you this for shits and giggles, all right?"

"We're serious, too!" Lestrade said loudly. "We just need you to cooperate; we believe what you're saying!"

"Why _are_ you telling us about this?" Molly asked abruptly.

Selena wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands and said, "Because you know how I said the thing that took my mother was human, but not human? That's exactly what this woman was like. She rang my bell and I let her in because she… said some things, but the more she spoke, the more I was convinced she wasn't human."

"What did she say?" Sam asked, leaning forward. He had pulled out a notebook and pen from his pocket and now Lestrade felt guilty for not being better prepared. He blamed Sherlock for waking him up so early and not giving him time.

"She said a lot of things," Selena replied, shrugging.

Sam exhaled, annoyed. "You're really going to have to be a bit more specific than that. We know she only came to you for a particular reason. Do you remember what you were doing when she showed up?"

Selena hesitated, concentrating. "I was… I was just sitting. Thinking. Missing my dad."

"Missing your dad?" Molly broke in. "Where is he?"

"He died a few months ago."

Everyone murmured apologies and sympathies.

"So you were missing your dad..?" Sam prompted.

"Oh, um, yeah. I was just sitting here crying when she rang the bell. And when I went to answer, she was just standing there…"

"You said you let her in because she said some things. What things?" Sam spoke as he wrote.

"She said she knew… that I missed him. She said my dad had been a good man, a great man. And that I shouldn't have to go on without him." Her voice dropped to a whisper, "She said she could bring him back if I wanted."

"And you agreed?" Sam was still writing.

"I considered it. You have to realize how tempting it was. I miss him more than anything. I think I would've said yes if it hadn't been for my mom and the- the wendigo. My dad always told me to be careful. After that day, he said there were things out there no one should trust and believe in. He said there was more than we ever realized."

Sam looked up into her eyes. "You only considered it?"

Selena nodded. "I would've said yes. I _know_ I would've said yes. It was just… can't forget the past. So I told her to fuck off."

"How did she react?" Lestrade asked, curious in spite himself.

"Saying she was angry would be an understatement, even though she didn't show it or scream or anything. She just… tightened. Gave me a dirty look and said I was making a mistake. She tried to tell me my dad would've been disappointed. I think that was the final straw. My father would _never_ have been disappointed in me for turning that bitch down. He would've been proud."

"You did the right thing," Sam nodded in reassurance.

"I know. I wish, though, I could've said yes."

"No, don't think like that. It wouldn't have been your dad that would return. That doesn't happen in real life," Sam flipped his notebook shut. "Anyway, thank you so much for your time. I think we have all we need. Guys?"

Lestrade nodded and stood. "Yes, thank you. If we have any questions, can we be assured of your future aid?"

"Definitely. I want you to stop her. It isn't right, her going to people like this and toying with their emotions. I don't care what she is, it shouldn't be done."

The four of them headed to the front door, where Sam and Lestrade shook her hand. Molly, surprisingly, gave her a small hug and said, "I'm sorry for your loss. Good luck."

"You can call me or visit anytime. Midnight, afternoon, I don't care. I'll help however I can."

The time thing struck Lestrade, who suddenly realized he hadn't called in late or sick. He quickly flashed her a smile and walked out the door. He went to check the time on his phone and realized its battery had died without the normal all-night charging.

As soon as they were out, they heard Selena shutting all the locks and bolts on her door again. No wonder she took every precaution. With a story like that…

Back at the car, before even acknowledging Sherlock, Lestrade said, "Can we talk on the way to my flat? I need to get to the station and my phone is dead."

"Sure," Molly said from the front seat, putting the car in gear. She was the best driver of the four.

"I'm waiting," Sherlock snapped impatiently.

On the ride over to Lestrade's flat, Sam filled in Sherlock with all the details. Sherlock didn't interrupt, merely kept his hands joined together and listening. He would nod occasionally, as if in his head he understood exactly where this new information fit in the puzzle.

Once they got to Lestrade's building, he told Molly through her window, "Give me a minute, I just have to grab my charger and then you can drop me off at the station."

"I'll come with you," Sherlock said, opening the door and coming around to his side. Lestrade shrugged, already moving and feeling for his keys. "Lestrade, I wanted to… um, say that it's nice you're helping us. I know you're under no obligation."

"Wow, Sherlock, look at you trying to say _thank you._" Lestrade laughed. He was running up the stairs, Sherlock keeping pace with him.

Sherlock looked slighted but went on, "I just think you calling me a friend is- it's unexpected. Pleasant, yes, but also unexpected."

"You're welcome," Lestrade said, trying to save Sherlock his awkward little speech. They reached his floor. Lestrade and Sherlock both immediately noticed the shadow hunched over Lestrade's door just as the figure turned.

Sally Donovan gaped at the two men, eyes widening as she recognized the man who was supposed to be dead. For a moment, she seemed unable to move. Then she pointed a finger past her superior officer and yelled, "Sherlock Holmes!"


	17. Chapter 17: Wits, If Not Strength

Sally Donovan opened the door to her office, tired but determined to get all her pending work finished. She was already worried sick about her mother. She'd been behaving really strange for the past week. And after Sherlock's suicide, the Superintendent had demanded that all of Sherlock's old cases be reopened and examined. None of the other officers were willing to help and that left Donovan alone with the bulk of the work.

Not that it mattered. Every case so far was squeaky clean. Sally was even beginning to have little doubts; some of the cases were so awful and complex that she doubted even Sherlock could be savage enough to manipulate or create them. He may be a freak but could he be so cruel?

She had just sat down at her desk when Anderson walked in. She groaned internally. Sally enjoyed his company sometimes but the guy could _not _take a hint. Really, it was supposed to be a one-time thing with him and she had regretted it immediately afterward. She had been lonely and stressed about the Cabbie Murderers and had followed him home on a whim. For fuckssakes, he had a _wife._ And his name was _Sylvia._

"Hey, have you seen Lestrade around?" He asked.

"No, sorry. I just got in myself. Maybe he's running late?" Sally suggested. She had passed by his office on her way. It was locked.

Anderson frowned, "He knows we have a fuckload of work, why wouldn't he at least call and tell us? Anyway, would you give him this file when he gets here? He asked for it specifically as soon as it arrived from St Barts." Anderson handed her the blue file marked _Cult Suicides Post-Mortem _by M. Hooper.

Sally took it. "Of course. Well, better get back to this mess," she indicated her laptop and the paperwork.

"Yeah, listen, I was wondering if you were free later…" Anderson raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Sally struggled not to roll her eyes. He never bloody gave up! "I would love to meet up but I'm just so caught up with work right now. You know how it can get. Sorry," she apologized insincerely.

Anderson looked disappointed but backed out of her office, saying "No problem. See you."

She grinned as he left, waving enthusiastically. Then she turned her attention to the report. Despite all her remaining work, she was captivated by the Cult Suicides. They were… dramatic, to say the least. And impossible. Sally hadn't been assigned but she had been following all the progress closely. Even Sherlock couldn't have figured this one out. It was the talk of Scotland Yard and pressure to solve the case was hitting Lestrade hard. No wonder he was late. Between his divorce and finding a flat and all this work, he should probably just take the day off.

But- there was work to do. Mothers to worry about. Sally opened her laptop and began sifting through the papers on her desk, trying to place them in chronological order.

The file was enticing. The blue folder sat in the corner of her eye. No matter how much she tried to ignore it, it was _right there._ Finally, half an hour later, Sally gave up resisting. She snatched it up and read through every page, even the detailed blood pathology (some of which included phrases she had to look up.) It wasn't particularly a page turner but the information was compelling. Why the hell would these people kill themselves violently behind locked doors… without a weapon?

And where the hell was the man in charge of the case?

Sally got up and checked his office: still empty. She wanted to talk to him, possibly mention that her mother was having issues and she wanted to take time off to spend the day with her. She tried his mobile and realized it was switched off. She left a message anyway, "Greg, it's Sally. You're probably just late and that's fine, but I wanted to let you know Hooper's post-mortem report is at the Station."

Now her anxiety changed into concern. Was he okay? What if he was hurt? He hadn't been taking very good care of himself since Sherlock's death. Most of the time, he looked spooked. Especially since the FBI agents. Sally didn't know what the men had wanted but they hadn't been back. She wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

Maybe she should go check on him. It had been hours since he should've arrived and he hadn't even left a note or rang the secretary or e-mailed someone of his absence.

Sally took the blue file from her office, figuring it was a decent enough excuse to check up on him if he bothered to ask. She told the secretary she was going on a quick break and left. She knew where his new flat was; she had practically helped him comb the newspapers and find it.

There were clouds in the sky shockingly when she stepped out. She should've known the good weather London had experienced wouldn't last, especially not with all the freak storms and whatnot. Global fucking warming. Sally pulled the coat around her tighter and increased her pace, worrying all the while and occasionally trying Lestrade's number.

When she got to his building, she saw it was even dingier in person than it had seemed on the internet listing. She felt a pang of pity for Lestrade: he was a good guy and an ever better boss. It was a pity he had to live in this shithole. She ran up the flight of stairs, seeking out the numbers of his apartment. Finally she found it.

Sally went to the unremarkable door and tried it; locked. She tried calling Lestrade again and held her mobile close to her ear. All she could hear was the busy tone in one ear while she tried to hear whether there were any noises coming from inside the flat. Not that she could gather. Her concentration toward sounds from _inside_ was so strong that it took her a moment to become aware of footsteps _behind _her.

She whirled around and froze. Sally's immediate panic-stricken thought was _It's a ghost, oh god, no, please help me._ She raised her finger at the apparition, taking the moment to notice his eyes widening in shock, the sudden reflexive half-turn he made as if to retreat down the staircase again… so, human after all?

Regardless, Sally screamed shrilly, "Sherlock Holmes!" She took a step back but slammed against the wall. Her cell and the blue file fell to the floor, one in a brute thump and the other in a flutter of papers. "Sherlock!"

"God's sake…" Lestrade began, and Sherlock headed forward.

"No, FUCKING NO!" Sally cried, her voice shrill and constricted as she shrank back from him. Every cell in her was warning _Danger! He's dead! He's an enemy!_

"Shut her up, or I will!" Sherlock said loudly to Lestrade. She would have recognized that condescending, ruthless voice anywhere.

The ghost- human- grabbed one of her wrists. His long fingers were cold and hard around her skin warm from the adrenaline rush. Sally flinched in her vulnerability but realized by the touch that this was an enemy she could fight tangibly. Her years of police training jerked to life and she landed a fast kick to his shin.

"Agh!" Sherlock bent forward in pain.

It gave Sally the opportunity to kick him again. His grip around her hand was still too strong to break. "Stop!" She shrieked, defensively pulling her arms closer and lashing out with her legs, frizzy hair falling into her eyes from the scuffle.

Sherlock reached forward and covered Sally's mouth with his free hand. She exhaled against his palm, lips tasting sweat. How dare he? His hold nearly had her gasping for breath. "Lestrade! The door!" Sherlock commanded.

The detective inspector was already at the lock and throwing the door open, letting Sherlock bearhug Sally in an immobilizing position and carrying her in. She struggled her hardest but then her gaze settled on Lestrade. A sudden abandonment came over her and she fell limp in Sherlock's arms.

Was he in on this? Her _boss_? She had only come here to make sure he was _okay_.

Sally felt deceived and lost, but only for a moment. It was long enough for Sherlock to have brought her inside the flat and the door to close. She elbowed Sherlock hard and heard him grunt with the force of the hit. She repeated the action and felt him wince, loosening his muscles while he recovered.

Sally tried to free herself in the small window of time she had. She just .. had to .. fucking angle her body .. away ..

"This is ridiculous," she heard Sherlock declare, his face so close behind hers that every exhaled breath from the sentence tickled her ear. And then her mouth was free.

Before she could react, Sally felt those powerful fingers close in on a spot on her neck between the ears and shoulder and pinch the sensitive nerve _hard._ A sudden blossom of pain caused her to crumble inward instinctually. Then the pain was gone and Sally had blacked out.

* * *

><p>There was a melody of loud rain in her ears, punctuated by occasional loud rumbles of thunder. A muddled throbbing in her upper back and arms made Sally aware that she was awake. But the vague exhaustion in her head made her want to sink back into darkness. She raised her head slightly in experiment and flinched when the sensation caused a fresh spurt of pain. Even trying to move her arms proved impossible.<p>

There was something distracting about the entire situation that was telling her not to be so relaxed. Sally tried to squelch the feeling so she could return to some well-deserved rest, but it only succeeded in perplexing her more.

Finally, she was forced to open her eyes. On a bed. The room she saw was dim, the only gray source of light coming from a window where rain fell in sheets against the pane with inexplicable vengeance. Sally turned her gaze to her arm, bent around the bed at an uncomfortable angle. She followed her elbow to wrist where she discovered a handcuff chaining her to the bedpost.

_Oh._ She remembered.

Sherlock Holmes. Responsible for putting her in a terrible situation once again. Sally groaned and pulled herself upright, maneuvering with one free arm and ignoring the godawful ache in her back.

"Oh, you're awake?" Someone asked behind Sally, causing her to jerk back and strain her arm as she twisted to see who. Her back complained instantly, bringing tears to her eyes.

It was John Watson. Sitting on a chair (dozing, from the looks of it), watching her.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Sally demanded. She had to speak up to be heard over the insistent raindrops, hating that her voice sounded hoarse and tired.

"Well, I'm a doctor. And you might have been hurt. Sherlock said you might have… er, hit your head when you fell. I thought you may have a concussion but Sherlock denied it. He said when they were bringing you from Lestrade's, he did a proper examination in the car. But I figured I ought to stay with you anyway for when you wake up," the way he casually used Sherlock's name in conversation, rationally explaining the events that had just happened, made Sally want to curl back up on her side and deal with this shit later. It certainly explained her pounding headache.

Instead, she said in halting tones, "He jumped off St. Barts. Moriarty was up there, too. Sherlock Holmes is dead."

"_Was_ dead," John corrected with a smile. "Thank god he isn't anymore, though, eh?"

"Are you making a joke? Are you making a fucking joke after I've been assaulted and kidnapped and held prisoner?" Sally spat viciously.

John's smile vanished. A flash of thunder illuminated the expression on his face; he looked embarrassed now. "I'm sorry for what happened. We needed to contain the situation before Lestrade's neighbors noticed. Sherlock apologizes for his behavior. I mean, he _will_ apologize."

Sally took a deep controlled breath. "You open my handcuffs this instant, give me my mobile, and get Greg here. Now."

"Sorry again, can't do that," he said, shaking his head.

"_What_? I'm a detective, John Watson, I don't think you fully grasp what you're doing here," Sally's voice softened, sympathy blending with understanding. "I know Sherlock's a manipulative man, but he's dangerous, too. Whatever lies he's told you- I can protect us. I've seen him doing this shit for _years._ I've seen his ways. Please. Open me."

John shifted uncomfortably. Thunder grumbled outside. "You're safer here," he said finally.

"You must be fucking _kidding_ me!" Sally suddenly yelled, kicking at the headboard with both legs, trying to free herself. The bed rocked violently.

The door flew open; Sally squinted her eyes at the bright artificial light flooding in. It was a woman, kind of short, brown hair...

"Alright?" she asked, as if there wasn't a woman kidnapped and tied to her bedpost screaming to be let loose, as if there wasn't a dead detective running around with his creepy best friend who also happened to be an ex-soldier.

"Who are you?" Sally spoke through clenched teeth.

"Oh, erm, my name's Molly Hooper. I brought you dinner," she added, taking a few hesitant steps forward. She held out a dish of macaroni and cheese.

Sally's eyes were narrowed as she studied the other woman, her name suddenly clicking. "You're the mortician! Your name was on the Cult Suicides file!"

"Well, yes. I work at St. Barts," Molly admitted. Her eyes flicked to John for a moment. "So then, you'll eat now?"

"Okay, look. There seems to be some kind of miscommunication. I'm handcuffed to a bed. Surely you see the problem? I'm a detective, you need to open me," Sally again lowered her voice to a convincing inflection. Wits, if not strength. If she wasn't going to get free by kicking and screaming, she had to try the alternative. Sweet talking.

"Oh… I would but I haven't got the key. I think Lestrade took it with him."

Once more, Sally felt the crushing betrayal she had experienced earlier, knowing that someone she trusted so much had chosen to take the other side. Lestrade was _her_ boss, his faithfulness shouldn't have been with returned-from-the-dead Sherlock Holmes. She felt a possessiveness toward the man.

"Go away," Sally commanded in a heart-broken voice.

Sally tugged half-heartedly against her cuffs before despondently curling up against the headboard, pulling her knees up. She wasn't one to give up, but John Watson and Molly Hooper looked like harmless and sentimental people. Perhaps they were more likely to open her if they felt guilty or bad. She let her head drop, hair falling over her forehead in a mess, and sniffed a few times for added effect. The rain, Sally thought, only added to the tragedy.

But she was underestimating their loyalty. Molly merely turned and left. John kept studying her.

Realizing her theatrics were useless, she asked in a croaky voice, "Would you at least tell me what's going on? Please, John. My boss has abandoned me, dead men are coming back to life, I hurt everywhere, and now I'm tied up in a stranger's house."

"It's all very complicated. If you're hungry, I could ask Molly to bring you the dinner back?" John phrased it as a question.

"Oh, never mind. I couldn't keep anything down anyway. My head feels dizzy," Sally peered carefully up at him, wondering if he was catching on.

He looked worried enough. "Are you sure you're alright?"

She sniffed again, trying to bring forced tears into her eyes. She said in a broken voice, "I'm… faint. I haven't had anything to eat and I've been passed out for so long… Oh, John!" Sally sobbed slightly, trying to pull up her manacled hand but only succeeding in making a jangling noise. She pseudo-cried into her other hand, making herself look weak and scared.

John was on his feet now, moving to her side of the bed. He laid a comforting hand on her arm. "Sally…"

The detective didn't let him speak another word. She grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him against the wall. His head knocked against the plaster in a particularly pleasing _thwack_ sound that made Sally smirk in satisfaction as he crumpled to the rug. She knew the activity was pointless in freeing her, but fuck that. She wanted to piss him off and _hurt_ him for ever messing with her.

John groaned and backed away from her. "Damn it, Sally," he said, clutching his head.

The door opened again, this time a tall lean silhouette filling the arch. Sally knew that shape instantly. Sherlock was paying his captive a visit.

Sherlock's quick eyes analyzed the scene and he said in disappointment, "John, how could those tears look real to you in _any_ way possible?"

"Shut up," John muttered, rubbing his head.

"Never mind that, I was looking through the records and guess who else has been found victim by the Serpent? Sally Donovan's mother, Susan. Oh, all the ways we can use this to our advantage!"

"The what? My mother? What the fuck are you on about? You leave my mother _out of this!"_ Sally hissed, crocodile tears vanishing, her handcuffs grating across the bedpost.

John slowly got to his feet. He shot Sally a nervous glance. "Is she okay?"

"Aren't they all physically okay? But then, who knows what's going on inside their demon-infested brains," Sherlock mused, his voice light and curious.

"Demo- what? Sherlock, I order you to tell me what's going on _right now_! Or I swear I will personally beat the life out of you again!" Sally threatened.

Sherlock smiled in that asshole way he always did when he knew something the others didn't. Smugness really didn't suit his face very well. It made him look even more cruel; Sally now remembered why she didn't doubt his ability to do violent sociopathic crimes. "It's really a quite a long and complicated story and you've been very rude to me, Sally Donovan," he drawled.

"Um, Sherlock?" John said.

Sherlock turned to him, an eyebrow raised. "I'm only telling the truth!" He insisted.

"Really not the time," John murmured. "Mothers are a bit of a delicate area."

Ah, so then he was the moral compass. Doctor Watson, ever the sensitive soul. Sally could almost feel the connection between them, between the man who saw everything and the man who knew how to use that knowledge. If she wasn't so worried about her mother, she certainly would've made a comment on it. But at this moment, her concern for her already odd-behaving mother was peaking quickly. In fear of aggravating Sherlock any more, Sally kept her mouth shut, convinced John would help her.

And his words did help.

Sherlock took a step closer, still staying out of reach. "So shall I tell you the most fantastic true story you've ever heard in your life, Detective Donovan? Are you willing to listen?"

Did she have a choice? Sally Donovan listened.


	18. Chapter 18: Basic Human Function

John was tired from his shift at the clinic and he mentally cursed this bloody rain he had to walk through to get to Molly's apartment. He was actually slightly amazed Sherlock was letting him go to work despite the world ending. John was glad for it. It helped return the slightest semblance of normality to his life, no matter how thin the illusion was. It distracted him from other, more demanding matters: Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, demons, Americans.

The sharp sounds of rain on his umbrella were a welcome shift in matter from the immediate thoughts inside John's head. It had officially been 24 hours since a kidnapped detective was in Molly's flat. Lestrade said he'd take care of the technicalities, give her a day off, but even he couldn't hold suspicion off for much longer. He'd dropped by in the morning and had a little talk with Sally, pleading and apologizing and comforting. She had refused to talk to him.

And the little flat was starting to feel more and more crowded by the minute. Especially since he and Sherlock had decided to get physical. So far it was nothing more than a few kisses here, sleeping together in the same bed… it was a wonder no one else had noticed.

Of course everyone else obviously had their own problems. Dean and Cas- that was unexpected. They seemed a lot more at ease with each other but there was still an underlying current of how foreign being together felt for them. If they even were together. Things were complicated at the moment. With everyone's relationships and living arrangements and keeping an eye on all the CCTV footage to track every move of the Serpent (who never rested)… complicated actually sounded too simple a word to cover the mess.

When John reached the flat, Dean and Molly were sitting outside on the porch, just out of the reach of the rain. They both had glum expressions on their face, coats wrapped around themselves.

"What's wrong?" was the first thing John thought to ask. He reflected momentarily on that: this was his world; someone who looked unhappy instantly made him leap to the conclusion that someone was hurt.

"Sherlock's playing the violin inside. Trying to figure out what to do," Molly said.

"That's not so bad," John said.

"There's only so much a person can take of that screeching. You know, like three entire minutes," Dean grumbled.

"Where are the others?" John closed his umbrella as he reached dry land, shaking out the damp from his coat.

"Sam's at St. Barts. He's helping out the IT department. Last time we were there, they asked for his help and he's actually pretty good with computers. We're a bit understaffed, since… um, you know," Molly shrugged, choosing not to finish the sentence. "And Cas is still inside. He said he wasn't bothered by the violin. Said it reminded him of an old friend."

"You guys left Sally in there with him?" John sighed, leaving the two of them outside to stare at the rain to their hearts content. As soon as he opened Molly's door, there it was: the familiar, high keening of the violin. It always made John slightly sad. It reminded him of exactly everything opposite the war. While one was harsh, the other was gentle; one was violent, this one was soothing.

Castiel was watching the CCTV footage at the dining table. He briefly glanced up at John and nodded.

John nodded back and went into their room. Sherlock was staring out the window, perfectly still except for his right arm, moving with the bow fluidly over the strings. John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He stiffened, stopped playing, and said "I have a plan. I know what to do with Donovan."

Almost as if cued, Sally's voice rang from the other room "THANK YOU FOR SHUTTING UP, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!"

John smiled and returned his attention to Sherlock. "And what's that?"

"I'll be needing Lestrade's help to convince her, obviously."

"Convince her of what?"

"There's also the slightly pressing matter that Susan Donovan's house isn't available directly to any of the camera's feed, we only discovered the Serpent had been there through the camera on the next street and the transformation. But that's hardly a concern."

"You're not making any sense to normal people. You know, like me," John reminded Sherlock.

"You should've brought my skull along with the violin. It didn't talk back."

John grimaced. "Fine. I'll just be waiting outside in the cold with Molly and Dean, then. Feel welcome to explain when ordinary mortals aren't too unbearable for your ego."

"No, wait," Sherlock touched John's hand lightly to keep him from leaving. A mischievous smile was on his face. "What makes ordinary mortals stay and listen? Shall I ask you nice things? How was your day?"

"As if you can't see every detail written across me in permanent ink," John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock chuckled then frowned slightly, the little crease appearing between his eyebrows. "One of your patients gave you her number earlier. How sweet." Sherlock's voice sounded like he thought it was anything but.

"Yeah, I'm considering calling her, too," John retorted.

Sherlock looked taken aback. He dropped John's hand, saying a quick "Oh."

"Joking, Sherlock. I'm only joking. I… I wouldn't do that."

Sherlock didn't look particularly convinced. John wasn't sure what protocol to follow at the moment. This wasn't a normal relationship. He wanted to take his words back. Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand jokes like that. Of course he'd take the worst lines seriously.

"Sherlock?" John said softly. "C'mon, you know I wouldn't actually call anyone else."

"But why wouldn't you? You're perfectly free to do so."

Now it was John's turn to be offended. "Well, I shouldn't be free to, should I? I'm with _you._ Suggesting I should call someone else is- it's cheating."

"Cheating." Sherlock said the word out loud without attaching any connotations to it, as if examining it for the first time in relation to his own life and experiences instead of a few wayward deductions.

"Yes, cheating. Being with one person and still, you know, going out with another."

"Cheating is frowned upon, but not illegal. There must be some reason people do it."

"There are tons of reasons, but never mind. Do you get what I'm saying, Sherlock? About not calling anyone else up?" John stepped forward and took the violin out of Sherlock's hands. He started placing it back in the case, for once not drawing any complaints from the performer. "Did you get any sleep, Sherlock?"

"I couldn't last night, what with you tossing and turning. I thought the war nightmares would've been subdued by now, if it not entirely gone."

"War nightmares?" John laughed a single syllable, the sound oddly harsh for him. "Sherlock I haven't dreamt of the war in ages."

Sherlock stared at him, eyebrow raised. "But… you still react to it. The rising pulse, the fear on your face, flickering eyes, all indications of your PTSD returning."

"No," John was shaking his head, "No, my nightmares- I… I see you at St. Barts. I see you jumping." He stopped, swallowing with difficulty. He refused to look up into Sherlock's face, afraid of the expression he'd see there: pity, confusion, disgust at such vulnerable human emotions. Abruptly changing the subject, John went on, "That means you didn't sleep last night. We agreed if you're going to pull all-nighters, you'd at least take a nap."

"I was busy," Sherlock began pacing, either unconcerned with John's previous confession or unwilling to discuss it.

"Busy? For a basic human function?"

"It isn't basic if I can do without it."

"Busy with what?"

"Thinking!" Sherlock spat. "You really should try it sometime."

John clenched his teeth together. He should've known. Sherlock hadn't had an episode yet, working with all these people, taking favors from all those he hated- and now getting caught alive by Sally Donovan and being forced to tell her the truth (and it was still uncertain whether she believed it or not). John knew the big meltdown was coming eventually. He didn't have to be a psychologist to figure that one out.

Hoping to avert the crisis before it started, John appealed to Sherlock's ego: "Tell me your plan. Tell me what you have in mind."

Sherlock didn't answer. He gave the closed violin case a longing look.

"Sherlock?"

"The only way Sally Donovan will agree to help us is if she feels her mother is in danger and Lestrade agrees to our plan." Sherlock said quietly. "But I don't think she'll listen to me. And I don't think now's the right time for Lestrade to make any sort of request. She's angry with him."

"We haven't got a choice, though, have we?"

"No." Sherlock was quiet for a minute. "She was blonde."

"Sorry? I didn't get that last part," John started as Sherlock leaned down to peer intently at John's face. Possessive. Too inquiring for this question to be just casual.

"The woman who gave you her number. Blonde hair, brown eyes."

"I don't think- I can't remem- yes. No, it was sort of more a _dirty_ blonde, don't think I even saw her eyes…"

Sherlock pressed his lips down on John's, once and very lightly. "Thank you," he whispered, striding past him, attention fully on his mobile phone.

John watched him leave, wondering what the hell had just happened. _What was that for?_ John wanted to call out. Because that's the kind of relationship they had. When Sherlock kissed him seemingly without provocation, John wondered why he had done it. And why did he go off afterward without a second thought? Did he have second thoughts or was everything in the Holmes mind one long organized string of thought: Donovan's utilization followed by kissing followed by contacting Lestrade? It felt as though he had just passed some kind of a test. John marveled that Sherlock even questioned him about it. Then he realized he really _couldn't_ remember what the woman's hair and eyes had looked like. He wasn't sure if this knowledge disturbed or secretly pleased him. Oh, hell, the world was ending. What did it matter now?

* * *

><p>"Lestrade, you know you'll have to be the one telling her the plan. She already thinks all of us are insane with our stories of angels and demons, she hates me with an absolute intensity that I really cannot place, and you're the only one I expect she'll trust even the slightest."<p>

Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face, looking exhausted and drained. "Oh, Sherlock, why do you do this to me?"

"Oh, sorry, I must have missed the part where I'm responsible for a mythical creature as old as time that begins turning people into demons and granting them one wish like some demented fairy godmother," Sherlock sneered in one breath. John rolled his eyes. How someone like Sherlock hadn't deleted the idea of 'fairy godmothers' from his hard drive brain was beyond him.

"Good lord, I'm not blaming you!" Lestrade replied. "You've taken my best detective and you're wondering why she hates you. As if it isn't obvious."

"You're suggesting she hates me because I have a superior mind?"

"That's why; because you're the kind of person who would assume something like that."

"Then you're saying she has a higher IQ then me? Really, Lestrade-"

"No! Because it isn't enough that you can tell something embarrassing about a person, you have to _flaunt_ it. Rub it in their face. As if it isn't enough they're going through it, you have to be the constant reminder that now other people know it, too. Oh, forget it," Lestrade said tiredly. "I'll try to talk to her. Though if it's anything like this morning, I don't expect her to listen."

"If she thinks the slightest bit that what we're saying is true and her mother is in danger, she'll listen. I think I know Donovan well enough to say that with confidence," Sherlock confirmed.

"You _don't_ know Sally Donovan!" Lestrade hissed.

John took this moment to say "This is absurd, you guys whispering about things that are obviously extremely important. Greg, just go. Talk to Sally."

"Wait!" Sherlock held up a hand, taking large steps toward the dining table where his laptop was. He placed it into Lestrade's hands and instructed, "Show her the video clip on the screen; it's the footage of Susan Donovan turning into another woman."

"Are you trying to scare her shitless?" Lestrade demanded.

"No! I'm trying to convince her and this is the only way to do it."

Lestrade took a deep preparing breath, opened the door, and went in to battle. John closed the door behind the DI, though that didn't stop Sherlock from cupping a hand around his ear and lying flat on the floor to listen through the crack.

"Insane," John muttered, glancing briefly around the empty flat. Molly was taking the Winchesters shopping for things they probably needed after having so much time in London already. It had left the flat strangely bereft. John had become used to seeing Sam's long shadow at the table, Cas napping on the sofa, Dean watching crap telly. They were starting to feel a bit like family.

Thinking of family, John remembered his promise to call Harry. He decided to text her later. For now- tea.

"Sherlock? Cuppa?"

"Shhh!" Sherlock hissed in response.

John shrugged and wandered to the kitchen.

A minute later he heard- "What THE FUCK is that? My mum!"

Sherlock chuckled from his perch pressed against the floor. John sighed; Sally had probably seen the shifting video. John remembered seeing Mrs. Hudson shift on the black and white camera feed. It had been terrifying and impossible. But then again, now everything seemed terrifying and impossible.

Abruptly, the door opened, nearly smacking Sherlock in the face. It was Lestrade. "She said she'll do it. Gave me her word. And I trust her well enough. Now, for the love of God, can you please unlock her?"

Sherlock got off the floor and dusted himself, "Can't. What if she runs away tonight?"

"Wait, when were you planning to pull this off?"

Sherlock groaned. "Remember, we need to make it look as natural as possible. Would Sally go see her mum now? Close to midnight? Come on, I expected better from the man looking after the streets of London."

Lestrade clenched his jaw together and said in a controlled voice. "This is the last time I'm letting you get away with something like this. That's my best woman cuffed to that bed, Sherlock. And_ you're_ the reason she's there. I'm only doing this because I still trust something of the genius who helps me solve my worst. Oh- and I'm slightly terrified of your brother."

"My brother has nothing to do with this," Sherlock scoffed.

"Are you joking? Your brother has everything to do with anything involving you. Remember the incident with the bad batch? And the one with one of your- what do you call them?- homeless network? Mycroft had both dealers caught within minutes."

"That was just those times."

"Oh, please," Greg smiled. "Shall I remind you of Baskerville?"

"No thanks, that's still fresh in my mind."

"Or how about that time you were found with stolen lab equipment in your brand new flat in Essex and you blew up half the building? I know I wasn't called in for that, but believe me- word got around. Someone ended up paying the owner of the building off and if you think it wasn't Mycroft, why are you even a consulting detective?"

John stared in fascination as these little bits and pieces of information came tumbling out. He realized Lestrade had known Sherlock for much longer and probably had been through too much with him. It really was a bit overwhelming to consider all of the things going through Sherlock's head at any given time. After all, he was the sort of man who forgot to sleep because he was too busy thinking. Basic human function traded in for stronger intellectual functionality. Which, John wondered, was worth more?

Sherlock must've noticed John's stare because he turned to fix his eyes on him and snapped, "What?"

"My god, it's like I don't know you at all," John tried not to look so surprised and distraught about this newfound revelation.

"Nobody really knows Sherlock; that's his best kept secret after all. Who he really is," Lestrade observed.

"You lot aren't philosophers. Quit trying," Sherlock remarked. "Everything a person needs to know about me is apparent."

Lestrade sighed and warned, "I'm telling you one last time; I'll be back tomorrow morning. If anything happens to Sally, it'll be your head. It's _not_ a game this time, Sherlock. Don't take it as one."

"It's never a game. I only treat it as one," Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if in disdain. John could tell he was listening, though. Lestrade wasn't the type to give ultimatums.

"I'm only leaving her here with you because I think you'll remain an ally, yes, John? Oh, and would you please give her something to eat? I think she'll take it now. She's never going to willingly admit she's hungry. She was angry enough to claw my face off, so just leave something, okay?" Lestrade pointed toward John questioningly.

"Of course. I'll bring her dinner as soon as Molly comes back with something," John promised.

Lestrade gave one last distrustful look towards Sherlock before relaxing and shaking his head. As if he was questioning his own judgment and coming up blank. He headed out into the rain.

Sherlock watched him go from the window. "And tomorrow we'll get to find out what's really going on."


	19. Chapter 19: Clothing, Door, Storm

Dean wasn't quite keen on the plan Sherlock had come up with. He found it weak, despite the detailed explanation Sherlock was giving to everyone, and more than a little desperate. But he figured it was best not to argue against a prophet.

So he paid attention, trying to get comfortable between Sherlock and Sally in the back seat bickering like children. Normally, Dean knew he'd probably be the one sparring with Sherlock but Sally seemed eager to snap at him at whatever chance she got. He actually kind of wished Lestrade would say something, but the man remained firmly facing forward in the front passenger seat. He seemed at the very edge of his patience dealing with Sherlock.

"And you _need_ to keep your phone on the entire time," Sherlock was saying. "We'll keep an eye on you from a few blocks away as far as the camera's feed extends. Past that, you're on your own. Remember to act normal."

"I'm going to see my mother. I think I'll be fine," Sally scoffed at the detective.

"You'll have to excuse me when I question your judgment; after all, I'm speaking to a woman who once held relations with Anderson," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, fuck off!"

"Please, Sally don't stoop so low again. And you need to do is concentrate. You've seen what happened to your mother."

"You said that wasn't my mother," Sally frowned. "You said it was some shape-shifting snake. I thought that was someone mimicking her. Jesus, why don't you tell me honestly what's going on!"

"All you're doing is checking to make sure she's fine and questioning her about a couple of things. And, of course, you're leaving the camera there." The camera that Sherlock now held out before Dean's face.

Sally snatched it from the palm of his hand, nearly smacking Dean in the process.

"I'm calling shotgun next time," Dean grumbled.

Sally and Sherlock completely ignored him. Only the rain seemed to pour down harder in sympathy.

Matching the impressive speed of the droplets, Sherlock was typing busily on his laptop he'd brought along. Because they'd lost the trail of the Serpent on the cameras, something Sherlock had ranted about for hours until John had threatened to shatter his violin. Of course that didn't stop him from starting again as soon as John had left for the clinic. Now, Sherlock commanded Sally, "Touch the red button on the top, I need to make sure the transmission is receiving."

"You know you're kind of invading her privacy?"

"And possibly saving her life."

"Right, against ghosts and demons," Sally rolled her eyes but followed his instructions.

Sally's face popped up on the laptop. "You _saw_ the video. I don't see why you have to be so difficult about this," Sherlock dismissed her.

"Oh, maybe because you held me against my will and are now making me do espionage work against my mother!"

"You're here, aren't you?"

"Yes," Sally hissed, her voice excessively loud compared to the beating of the rain on the car. "For Lestrade and my mum- don't for one second think I'm doing this for you."

"Do I take a turn here?" Molly asked suddenly from the driver's seat.

"Next turn," Sally said as Sherlock simultaneously corrected, "Turn in here."

Molly pressed down on the brakes. "What?"

"Stop here, we don't want to associate our car or anything to do with us to her. Remember, there are demons inside those people and we don't know how they communicate. So you're walking the rest of the way. Oh, look, I've forgotten to bring an umbrella," Sherlock smirked.

She groaned and muttered, "Asshole."

"I've got one." Lestrade said, twisting in his seat to hand the small black umbrella to Sally, who accepted it graciously. He waited until Molly came to a full stop before adding "And Sally, be careful."

Sally grinned, "Always am." She dialed Sherlock's number on her mobile which had been returned to her for this occasion. Sherlock answered and set the phone on speaker. "And don't get used to the call, Sherlock. It's just this one time."

She opened the door, spread the umbrella, and dashed out of the car. Her shoulders hunched over in the rain and wind. Dean greedily stretched out in the space she had left.

As soon as Sally was rounding the corner, Lestrade said, "You can really be a bit unbearable, Sherlock."

Sherlock chose not to reply. The echoes of rain emitting from the phone as well as on the car created more than enough noise to keep them distracted from any personal thoughts. All of them had their concentration redirected to the phone when they heard knocking.

"Who's there?" They all strained to hear the voice through a layer of clothing, a door, and a storm.

"Mum? It's Sal!"

"She's there," Sherlock announced redundantly.

Vague sounds and then the rain noises died out and suddenly they clearly heard a maternal voice saying, "You're going to get sick! Honestly, Sal, a phone call beforehand wouldn't have hurt!"

Cloth rubbing against cloth; the speaker crackled. Hugging, probably. "Sorry, mum! I didn't have time. I told you, I felt like seeing you so I just… dropped by. I know how busy you've been and I didn't want to bother you."

"Nonsense. You could never be a bother! Cuppa?"

"Sure."

"And I just made biscuits! I'll pack you some for later when you get home. Hand me that sheet, would you?" The sound of cling wrap being unraveled.

"C'mon, mum, stop fussing."

"Sal! Look how skinny you are!"

"Yes, it's called a diet! Never mind- Oh, is that from work? I haven't seen it before."

"It's actually my newest addition."

Sherlock explained in the ensuing silence, "Susan Donovan works for the Royal Mail and is an amateur stamp collector. Probably what they're talking about. At least she's doing a good enough job of being natural. But why won't she set up the camera?"

"Sherlock, shut up and let Sally do her thing," Lestrade said tiredly.

Dean sighed and stared out of the window. There was a brilliant flash of light across the sky that made Dean squint as he watched it unravel through the clouds. It reminded him of Cas. Cas, with his gray flecked blue eyes who could outshine the lightning. Cas, who he was constantly worried about. Cas… who Dean had been avoiding.

A loud crack of continuous thunder followed the lightning had all of them flinching in their seats. It literally seemed as if the road was shaking with impact. Dean could almost feel the trembling in his chest. Abruptly, there was no more noise. Sherlock looked up from his laptop.

"What happened?" he demanded, touching buttons on his phone. "I still have network- why's the line cut?"

"Connection probably got lost for a moment," Molly said. "You'll have to call again."

"No, no, _no, Molly!_" Sherlock growled. "I can't call again because then her phone will _ring_ and she'll have to _answer it_ and it'll be _obvious_ I'm on the line. NO! The entire plan's gone to hell. I need to hear her mother talking! I need to hear what she's been busy doing! I need to figure out what did mother asked for!" Sherlock slumped forward, hands in his hair.

"I think she can handle herself," Lestrade offered timidly.

"No, we need to go there. Molly, drive to her house," Sherlock pointed out the windshield.

"Are you crazy?" Dean retorted. "We can't just waltz up to the house and say, 'Hey, tea for one more?' when there's a demon in there. We were lucky enough getting away from your landlady."

"I need to know what's going on, we don't have any choice!" Sherlock hissed.

"We do have a choice- and we're not going!" Lestrade declared with finality. "You want us to do what? Park outside Ms. Donovan's house and try to listen through her window?"

Sherlock stared intently at the DI and said slowly, "I'll knock on the door."

"That's ridiculous. You're a prophet. Chances are the demons know who you are. You'll be putting yourself in danger," Dean pointed out.

"Hardly dangerous," Sherlock sneered. "Molly, we're wasting time!"

Molly turned to look at Lestrade in question. He threw up his hands and said, "Do whatever! As long as Sally's not the one getting hurt."

Dean opened his mouth but Sherlock started before he could protest, "Sally won't be getting hurt, I guarantee it personally. It's the last house in the block over. Go!"

At the last exclamation, Molly turned the keys in the ignition and drove around the block. She stopped at the one Sherlock pointed out. Just as Sherlock opened his car door, the front door to the house opened and Sally Donovan was running toward the car with Lestrade's umbrella.

"Open the door," she yelled and Dean moved into action. He held it for her as she got in and shook out the umbrella. Her coat was slick with rain and she was grinning breathlessly. Molly accelerated again, heading back to the direction of the flat.

"What the _hell_ happened to your _phone_?" Sherlock snapped angrily, leaning over Dean across the seat.

Sally looked taken aback. "Happened to my phone? Nothing. It's still on," she looked puzzled as she pulled her mobile out and stared at it. "Oh! I swear, I don't know how this happened."

"Why didn't you check?" Sherlock spat.

"Yes, I'm sure that would have qualified as something I'd normally do while visiting my mother," she rolled her eyes.

"Dude, lay off!" Dean broke in before Sherlock's next undoubtedly scathing remark.

"Yes, thank you Dean. I think I've got this battle, though." Sally remarked with a raised eyebrow and half a smile curving her lips up. "Alright, look, I've got your fucking camera turned on. Isn't that what you wanted? I'm only doing this to help _my mother_ so quit getting on my case."

Sherlock leaned away at her outburst and checked his laptop. "Oh. I hadn't realized. Er, you returned rather quickly."

Sally took her time replying. She was studying Sherlock with an unusual look. "I told her I was on lunch break and needed to get back soon. Set up the camera and left. You guys said it was dangerous, that it wasn't actually my mother. Why would I stay a moment longer than I had to?"

"You did good, Sally," Lestrade said. "Sherlock's just being himself."

"Is he?" Sally wondered out loud.

"What is that supposed to mean? Both of you?" Sherlock's voice was bitter. When nobody answered, he made a grumbling noise and turned away- as much as he could in the backseat, anyway.

Lestrade sighed loudly and asked Molly to pull over. "Sally, keep the umbrella. I think I'll run from here."

"In the rain?" Molly asked.

"My flat's nearby. I'll change there."

"Just in the style of Greg Lestrade, huh?" Sally put a hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy. You're too stressed."

The DI managed a smile and just said, "You're expected back in tomorrow."

Dean watched Lestrade go, the rain swiftly soaking through his shirt until Lestrade disappeared from view.

When they pulled up to Molly's street, Sally said, "Can you just take me home? I've done everything Sherlock asked and you lot ought to keep me posted about my mum."

"Oh, just come inside for a minute. You're wet! I can get you a towel to dry off," Molly offered. "I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Oh, Molly Hooper. I don't know what it is you want," Sally chuckled. "But let's indulge."

She opened the car door and umbrella together and poked her head back in, waiting for Dean who quickly scooted after her. "Come along, Dean Winchester. Shall we share Lestrade's umbrella?" She held out her hand for Dean and said, "Molly? Quick now, it's raining harder."

"I'm carrying a laptop," Sherlock said, frowning. "Bit more expensive than an American hunter and a morgue attendant."

Sally rolled her eyes and retorted, "No more room. Besides, that laptop's got six feet of a Holmes brother protecting it." She waited for Molly to come around the car and started walking with her back straight and her head high.

Normally, Dean would've been delighted to find himself in the company of two woman pressed close under an umbrella if he didn't feel guilty about Cas. Dean called back, "Sorry, man!" He turned back to check the detective's reaction. Sherlock had his eyes narrowed and his head stretched forward and he was staring at… Sally Donovan's ass? Sherlock was checking her out? That surprised Dean more than anything else that entire day.

He was still wondering about that when they followed Molly into the apartment which was too quiet- empty quiet. "Sam? Cas?" He called.

"Dean, there's a note on the refrigerator," Sally said without looking.

"How did you see that?" Sherlock asked crossly. He had tucked his laptop inside his button-up. Now he was putting his laptop on the table and tucking his shirttail in. His messy black curls were plastered to his forehead and his nose was bright red.

"It's _right_ there. Stop being jealous I caught something before you."

Dean sighed. "It says Sam went back to the IT department at St. Barts and took Cas with him."

"I have extra towels in the spare bedroom," Molly said. "Get out of those wet clothes."

"Yes, ma'am," Sally grinned, shaking off her boots and walked behind Molly.

Almost immediately, Sherlock got down on his stomach and examined Sally's shoes. He muttered to himself as he went along, inspecting them from every angle.

"Dude, this really is really creeper behavior, even for someone like you. I mean, checking her out is okay but sniffing her shoes? This is too much," Dean observed as Sherlock stared at the shoes less than a few centimeters from him.

"What?" Sherlock looked up briefly, annoyed. "Shut up. You're blind."

"Blind?" Dean echoed.

Sherlock glanced toward the bedroom then gestured Dean to join him on Molly's hardwood floor.

"Are you expecting me to-"

"Oh, just get down!"

Dean checked to make sure Molly and Sally weren't coming back yet before getting on his haunches. "Okay, this better be important."

"Look at Sally Donovan's boots. It's obvious from the scuffmarks on these side and the soles wearing out toward the big toe that her feet tend to overpronate when she walks," Sherlock pointed out nearly imperceptible marks and continued, "The arches of Sally's feet are flat, making her overcompensate when she walks and you've seen it as well- she has a very slight slouch but pushes her spinal column forward. However, did you see her when she went up to the flat? Her gait had changed completely. Her feet and back were aligning well- too well for her." Sherlock abruptly pushed off the floor and stood.

"Okay?" Dean rose, too, still not grasping the point.

"Coupled with the fact that our phone connection cut off-"

"In the middle of a thunderstorm."

"-and that Sally Donovan hasn't been behaving normally, I'd say something's wrong about her. Different."

"Are you just grasping at straws here?" Dean asked. "Because that is seriously what this feels like."

"I don't expect _you_ to understand," Sherlock scoffed. "Your eyes are never in the right place."

Dean crossed his arms and glared at the prophet. "If you're trying to say something, let's not play games about it."

"I'm trying to say you're an idiot for never paying attention to the important things!"

"You know what? I think you've just been uncomfortable since Sam and I got here because now you're not getting all the credit yourself. And it's fine if you don't play well with others, but guess what? Shitty situation we've got going here and I don't control it. So instead of being pissed at me-"

"Are you guys fighting?" Sally Donovan interrupted, looking considerably amused and drier.

"No, we're not. Dean's speaking and no one is listening to him," Sherlock clarified.

Dean gnashed his jaw together and went silent. He took off his coat and went to the sofa, determined to wait out his quarrel for when the army doctor got home. John Watson seemed to be the only one who could talk sense into Sherlock.

"Anyway, I'd better be getting home. Molly? I'll take a rain check on that tea," Sally called back as she opened the door, then giggled at her own words, "Get it? Rain?"

Molly appeared holding wet towels, "Oh, you're leaving? While it's still pouring out there?"

"Yeah, I'll get a cab. Don't worry about me, Molly Hooper. And I expect a call from you, freak. Keep me updated on my mother." Sally winked at Dean (will wonders ever cease, he wondered) and shut the door behind her.

Sherlock studied the print from Sally's still-wet boot and shook his head. "It's there, at the very edge of my mind. Something." He turned a critical eye to his laptop and flipped open the screen, calling up the slightly blurry monochrome video feed from Susan Donovan's house entry.

"Dean, we have leftover Chinese and that pasta your brother made- which do you want me to heat up?" Molly asked from the kitchen.

"Whatever you want," Dean answered. "I'm just hungry."

"That's it!" Sherlock exclaimed, his eyes still fixed to the laptop screen.

Molly and Dean exchanged looks, wondering if they should ask or he'd volunteer information on his own. Sherlock looked at the screen for another minute before standing and straightening.

His expression remained neutral as he told them "Excuse me, there's somewhere I need to be." Without another word, he pulled up his coat collar and walked out of the flat.

"_Needs_ to be?" Dean questioned.

"Oh, you know how pompous Sherlock gets. According to him, he's needed everywhere. It's a wonder the world functions without him," Molly shrugged, returning to the food and Dean returned to his silent brooding.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Quick apology, the last few chapters have been poorly written and overall are pretty shitty. But the next one should be a lot better.**


	20. Chapter 20: Limbs & Logic

The door was already open when Sherlock got there. He stood with his back against the wall trying to catch his breath from taking the stairway three at a time, coat and hair dripping rain from running all the way over. He didn't want to risk a cab and needed the time to think. And when he always felt this close to solving a major part of the case, the adrenaline masked any discomfort or cold he normally would have felt. It also surprised him that he still remembered Sally Donovan's address.

He was debating whether to knock and confront her directly or spy first and corroborate his facts. Before he could decide, he heard Sally's voice say, "Come inside, Sherlock. You'll catch cold out there."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes and shook his head, disappointed with himself. He had been positive nobody from inside the flat could see him from the alley when he'd entered the building from the alleyway entrance. John's gun dug into his back where he'd tucked into the waistband of his trousers as he shifted uncomfortably.

"Oh, don't worry; you were very _stealthy._ Stealth just doesn't count for much when infrared vision lets me see through walls," she laughed and Sherlock frowned. Was she mocking him? He couldn't see any cameras, certainly not thermographic ones. Since he'd already been caught, he figured he might as well go on the offensive.

"You're not Sally," he called. "Obviously not."

"Yes, good, very good. Which one of my very obvious clues did you pick up on?"

"Boots and gait. And the fact that your mother packed you biscuits and you returned to the car empty-handed. There is no way a concerned mother would let her daughter leave without forcing her to take the sustenance," Sherlock dully told her through the wall, his mind focused on trying to devise some kind of a plan. He wished he could see her, her reactions, her nonverbal cues. He thought perhaps his arrival was hasty.

"Not bad. But really, this is getting ridiculous. I left the door open as an invitation. Come inside, prophet."

Sherlock didn't move. "Why would I?"

"Would you believe me if I gave you my word? Besides, a man like yourself has surely brought some kind of a weapon for defense," Not-Sally's voice had a sardonic edge to it.

He sighed and slowly turned with heavy steps as he stepped through the doorway. The flat was small, a single room, rather dully furnished with mostly neutral colors. With a single glance, facts began registering in his head, drawing conclusions quickly and storing the information in his head: unopened urgently marked files on the coffee table (work overwhelming her and being brought home), shopping bags on the floor by the kitchen but everything properly arranged (liked being organized but found herself too busy to clean), the direction of bright lamps (frequently did her work on the table, sitting on the left side of the sofa), a painting on the far wall that wasn't immediately noticeable (sentimental value, her father's perhaps?)

"See, this is one of the things poor Sally hated about you. You just can't stop observing." Sally –_no, she isn't Sally_- interrupted his train of thoughts, drawing his attention to herself. She sat back languidly on the sofa, legs drawn up and a long-stemmed wine glass filled with red liquid in her hands. She had traded in her wet work clothes for a long bathrobe.

"Is Sally still in there? You're not like the other possessed demons. And if you are, you seem to have missed the bite marks," Sherlock noted.

"Oh, I thought you would have had this part figured out by now."

And just then it came to him, why he had seen the biscuits still in the kitchen, why Sally was walking differently, the goddamn obvious _infrared vision._ He berated himself for missing it before. Sherlock inhaled sharply and said, "You're the Serpent."

Distantly, past the revelation, he noted Not-Sally had a smile on her face, but it was a look Sherlock knew the real woman would have never worn; it was the look of a challenger who has just found the amusement in cruelty. She stood from her perch but didn't step forward, "Congratulations!" She crowed exaggeratedly.

"Where's Sally?"

"Her mother's house, staying away from the camera's angle. It wasn't difficult, hanging around Susan Donovan's, and it was apparent from the second I laid eyes on Sally that she wanted her mother to be okay. Easy to give. And I was getting a bit bored of the games and the hiding, especially once I'd figured out I was being watched."

"When did you find out?"

"Oh, just as soon as Mycroft started."

_Mycroft,_ Sherlock thought worried but aware his older brother could surely hold his own.

"Is that what you want? Mycroft's safety?" Not-Sally, the Serpent, asked softly. Her eyes bored critically into his. "I wouldn't think so. You don't have the normal sibling relationship, you're not the worrying type- can't say the same about him, though. That man sure wants a lot." She leaned forward after speaking, an eyebrow raised.

_She's studying me, just as I'm studying her. And we're both so good at this._ Her face gave nothing away, no tics or habits, no sideways glances, no nervous behaviors. It was inhuman. Trying to seem nonchalant, Sherlock questioned, "How do you know Mycroft's not watching you right now? After all, you seem to know just how concerned my brother is for me."

"I have it on good authority that he isn't," the Serpent grinned with Sally's face.

"Good authority?" Sherlock sneered. "Mycroft _is_ the highest authority."

"Would you like to see who's supplying me the information?" she stepped forward and something began happening to her. Sally's face melted in upon itself, the skin lightening and twisting, the slightest sluicing sounds as her bones shifted beneath flesh. Sherlock stared at the spectacle in horrified fascination, unable to look away. A moment later, a familiar woman stood before him in the bathrobe.

"Anthea," Sherlock breathed as he recognized the beautiful woman often seen accompanying Mycroft. If he hadn't already seen the transformation on camera countless times, Sherlock suspected he would have been speechless. Even now, it was disorienting to talk to an entirely different person. Then, involuntarily, he let out a humorless laugh and (borrowing a term from John) declared, "Bollocks! She would never let this happen to herself. Not to mention Mycroft would notice if his most trusted assistant was a demon."

"Not if there was a national emergency in Tehran," the smooth voice countered. She moved toward him, talking low and calm as if to a spooked cat. "Not if I had demons everywhere around the globe who knew just when to strike to cause entire country's to shift political dynamics. Not if my demon knew the perfect amount of distraction for Mycroft paired with collared shirts. Not if I knew Anthea's younger brother had an inoperable brain tumor that she would've done _anything_ to get rid of. Of course it was benign and ultimately harmless, but there's no need to tell her that."

Sherlock found himself stilling as she approached him, standing nearly face to face but for her height. He asked quietly, "How do you know these things, what people want? Can you read minds?"

Anthea's mouth laughed, the Serpents words sliding out of her full lips, "Isn't magic too simple an explanation, prophet? I don't read minds, I read people. We're not so different, you and I. We watch. We observe."

"And benign brain tumors are observable?" Sherlock looked down at her, not once moving his gaze, refusing to lose the battle.

"Not for your eyes. But _I_ can sense anything. I have an entire range of skills someone as human as you could never comprehend," she made the word human seem demeaning, and in a sudden shocking move, Anthea's bright blue eyes flashed Chartreuse, the pupil constricting into a long slit like an animal- like a snake.

Some visceral part in Sherlock recoiled from the sight and his incredible mind raced to cover the physical reaction his body would be helpless to make; he won the battle when his only response was to blink once at the transformation.

She smiled and leaned forward- Sherlock fought not to move away- and whispered, "You see, Sherlock, I can grasp right at this moment exactly how terrified you are. I can smell your blood as it rushes through your veins to the amygdala in your brain, I can hear the increase in your heartbeat as the chambers in your heart struggle to keep up, I can feel the tension in every single muscle as you try to keep yourself still. I am everything you do but so much better. Nothing escapes my senses. I am magic so far magnified that it's a _science,_" she hissed the last word, letting it linger with her hot breath against his ear.

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock replied, surprised that his own voice was a whisper. She was so close to him, doing anything but whispering would have been a waste of voice.

"What are you going to do?" the Serpent pulled back to meet his gaze, her reptilian eyes turning back to blue round pupils in an indistinguishable instant. "What have I to fear from a weakened prophet, a powerless angel, and two human brothers? I am the Serpent. I was here long before your gods, and the gods of the old cultures, and before their gods as well. Batting my eyelids at Lucifer and whispering in his ear, the tree, the apple, the duel with Michael- all adventures. Just another gamble to create more chaos and excitement for an audience as grand as me. I let them think they won; creatures so quick to be placated."

"Then how do they have powers? These gods and angels?"

"Power isn't difficult, Prophet. These beings come and go. They have only as much power as their people give them. I have seen entire religions rise and collapse with their civilization; the Greek Parthenon, the Egyptian Gods- I quite appreciated the ancient Chinese dragons."

"Then why now? Why take help from Crowley?" Sherlock remembered Castiel telling him about the attack.

"Is that what the fool is telling everyone? That I'm taking hishelp?" She snickered, as if the idea delighted her. "The fact is, I didn't take his help, I took his _demons_. I got bored when management changed- Crowley can be so unoriginal when it comes to execution of ideas- so I walked down into Hell, flirted with the fallen angel in his cage, and took the residents of Hell. Crowley obviously couldn't handle this and followed me but he just can't seem to catch up, running around with those filthy hellhounds like he is."

"What do you want?" Sherlock demanded, cutting the chase.

"I want to play." She reached out and put a hand on Sherlock's face, a finger tracing down his sharp jawline. Her skin was warm against his, and with that warmth came a reminder that the rest of his clothes were wet and clinging to him. Her touch was soft and silky but it paralyzed him. He wanted to move back, he wanted to protest. But those eyes were mesmerizing, holding him in place. The Serpent traced a vein down his neck, pausing at the hollow base of his throat and finding his pulse. She ran her fingers lightly against it until that pressure was the only one he could feel. "And I can play with anyone I want, see how easy it is?"

_Yes, I do,_ Sherlock wanted to say, but the words choked in his throat. He was unused to this, to losing control of his limbs and logic. His brain cells felt sluggish- toxic. The rain had seeped into his head and frozen into ice. _She isn't magic, she admitted so herself_. But this idea was too slow in reaching his mind, and once it did, it bounced around with no leverage or weight. In this moment, all he was truly aware of was her fingers moving from his neck to the collar of his coat, unbuttoning them one by one.

_I am Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. I can solve cases faster than criminals can commit them. I have written an intricate thesis on 243 types of tobacco ash. I have been offered knighthood more times than I care to count. I knew the history of John Watson within five minutes of meeting. I found the Winchesters with nothing more than the hint of a name and an accent. Then why can't I think now? Why can't I stop her?_

Because the Serpent was still talking, her speech like cloying molasses being poured over any other thought and squelching it out before it could take root in Sherlock's brilliant brain, "Humans have such petty weapons, don't they? I used to enjoy it: the languid crude sacrifices of the Aztecs. The squabbles over land and slaves. The countless Mongolian conquests, yes, those were my favorites. Oh, how I could paint with a sword, my ink the crimson blood of the soldiers around me. Masterpieces, all of them."

She finished with the buttons and pushed the heavy wet fabric back off his shoulders. Sherlock's arms hung uselessly beside him, offering no resistance, and the coat fell to the floor. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't feel curious why she was doing this. He felt nothing.

Her fingers worked busily against his shirt, untucking it and peeling it off, another layer shed like molting. She paused for a moment to trace the handpring Castiel had left on his upper arm. With Anthea's hands, she reached around his waist to grasp John's pistol, pulling it out from the band of his trousers. "And then you humans went and created guns," she clucked disapprovingly, examining the sleek metal and sighing, "World War II would have been glorious if it wasn't for these little, annoying shits."

The Serpent took out the bullets from the loaded gun and dropped them one by one to the floor, each making a cold _plink-_ing sound as it landed on hardwood floor. Sherlock heard the sound, he was well aware of it, but he couldn't look down. He was hypnotized- glued to her eyes.

Emptying the handgun, she smiled and continued, "But we know, yes, you and I. We know the truth. The real weapons are in words. They start wars. They end relationships. They last forever, written in the minds of scholars and in their papers. And with words, no one ever walks in unarmed. Humans can never kill words- they can never kill the creator of them."

And then she turned her back on him and Sherlock was freed from the invisible bondage. The first thing to hit him was the cold. Coatless, _shirtless_, and still damp, he shivered in the nonexistent wind. The next appearance was his voice and control of his own body. Sherlock's blue lips trembled with effort but he managed, "What… happened..?" and it came out as a weak gasp.

Finally, the last thing to return was his own thoughts- and they charged recklessly into his sore head. Theories, concepts, fears, observations, connections, all those things Sherlock couldn't turn off, each of them slamming into his perception until he wanted to scream. It struck with such intensity that he dropped to his knees, clutching his head and groaning involuntarily. Sherlock would have been appalled and embarrassed but he was in no condition. Abandoning his senses and passing out would have been a relief but he wasn't anywhere near as lucky.

Sherlock didn't know how long he had spent on his knees until he realized it wasn't just his thoughts he could feel. It took him another moment to decipher the second set of consciousness as all the words the Serpent had said and he felt it was all true. He _knew_ it was all true, with every bit of confidence a Prophet could have.

He could see it there, like a cinema behind his eyelids, like a man blind and dumb and incapable of touch for the first time in his existence becoming aware of all these senses. The wars and sacrifices, the many faces of Hell the Serpent walked through, the sweltering heat of deserts and biting freeze of mountains, all the things it had said, all of the bodies it had been.

Sherlock could pick a memory in his head, any memory, and see it unravel: meeting John for the first time. He focused on it. And as he ran through the memory one more time, it wasn't just his own deductions but those of the Serpent pointing out things he'd failed to notice the first time.

The very first _second_ Mike Stamford entered the door- he could see every pore on the surface of the man's skin, where the most heat was drawn in his body, feel the pattern swirling as they disrupted the currents, their breath permeating and shifting the air, hear each individual vocal chord in John's throat as he spoke with a pleasant backdrop of the humming of computer monitors. Sherlock became hyperaware of the occurrences he'd missed- and he'd missed nearly everything. There were so many details, so very many. Sherlock had to block the memory out before it drove him insane.

Every facet of Sherlock was opening, all this wasted space and so much potential in the human body bringing fruit; her _words_ had done this. Cradling his head delicately and able to utilize every single sense in his body and so many more he wasn't even aware of until now, Sherlock tried to speak. Only now could he understand how complex the process was, how each tissue synchronized and drew energy in the effort. If he opened his eyes, he became caught in the slightest specks and inconsistencies of dust on the floor and could do nothing else but watch it.

The world was buzzing and thriving around him, alive and intimate. Every vibration was detectable; it was a wonder.

Sherlock used to think cocaine stimulated his brain; now he knew better. He had been frozen solid before. Cocaine had only helped in melting a tiny corner of the ice. With this, his brain had been unthawed, all of it together in one blow.

He felt movement through the air and knew before it happened that there was a hand on his shoulder; he heard the blood behind it; he felt the prints on his bare back. Sherlock was still kneeling and just as suddenly, it was gone. Nothing was left.

Silence. He opened his eyes and the dust was gone. Nothing left but the wooden varnish on the floor. He could no longer see air currents. He could no longer feel the function of each organ.

"Stand, Prophet," instructed a new voice. Sherlock looked up. Mrs. Hudson stood there in a flowery dress, one he didn't recognize.

"Mrs… Hudson…" he wheezed. He couldn't tell one muscle apart from another anymore as he used them.

"No, Sherlock. Not Mrs. Hudson. Still who you call 'the Serpent', I'm afraid. Though I can't imagine why you lot chose that name. Perhaps because Serpents can twist and turn and find their way anywhere. What do you think?" She asked kindly.

"Think?" Sherlock echoed. He was weak. Dazed. Plagued.

"Oh, it seems temporary sensation of my powers has stunned you to an incredible degree. I even had enough time to shift and change. I apologize. I've never done this before either, you see. This is why I chose Mrs. Hudson- she's a motherly figure, is she not? She comforts you when you're ill," she ran a cool hand through Sherlock's sweat-drenched curls. Had he been cold before? He couldn't remember now.

"Ill? Not ill," Sherlock insisted even though he could barely lift his own head.

"Sherlock, dear, don't play games. You've sensed what I can sense; do you think a man like yourself can lie to me?" the Serpent softly made a noise with Mrs. Hudson's body, something like a coo. Like one might do to a baby.

Sherlock forced himself to look up; it was all he could do until he worked up the energy to sit up. He puffed, "How?"

"With the help of the two most powerful forces on Earth- words and myself."

"Why?" the single syllable drained the last of Sherlock's reserves and he sprawled to the floor with its utterance.

From his vantage point on the floor, he watched as the Serpent wearing Mrs. Hudson's body leaned over him and said, "To show you that there is nothing you or your wingless monkey brethren can do to stop me. I control the demons and I control the humans they occupy- why do you think humans consist of so many cavities, of crevices and spaces inside their bodies? They need to be filled with instruction. So why don't you just enjoy the ride while you're around and get out of my way? I'll have my fun, moving the chess pieces around and playing dolls with them. Eventually I'll get bored and let you go again."

Was that it? Was that the entire plan? Weeks of research, being resurrected from the dead, finding Selena and thinking there was a break in the case, all these little tidbits leading up to this moment- that they were helpless toys under the Serpent. It gave Sherlock the renewed drive to ask one more last question:

"Why me?"

She kissed him lightly on the forehead and said in the tones of a loving and tender mother attempting to soothe the whining of her child, "To prove that you, Prophet Sherlock, are just as ordinary as the others."


	21. Chapter 21: About God

Sam and Cas walked into the flat when it was nearly full dark outside. Dean and Molly were laughing together at the table, Sherlock's laptop open between them. Sam felt a slight pang of jealousy. Needless, it seemed, when Dean glanced their way and his smile vanished.

"Where the hell have you been, dude?"

"St Barts. They want to give me a job in IT," Sam said. "And you'll be glad to know, I accessed a few sites and hacked into some files and all three of us should have official London ID in a few days. It seems we're staying a few days more so let's be safe about it, right?"

Dean shrugged. His eyes flicked to Cas but looked away quickly. Sam caught the movement. Were Dean and Cas having issues? Before Sam could further analyze the look, Dean asked, "And your phone?"

"Battery died. Sorry."

Dean got up, shaking his head, "That's a bad excuse and you probably know it. C'mon dude, we've got problems going on here and the least you could've done was check in ever few hours."

"Chill out," Sam muttered.

"Chill out?" Dean repeated. "As if there isn't a fleet of demons roaming London, as if we're not up against the Serpent, as if you haven't taken a powerless angel out with you, as if everything's hunky fucking dory?"

Sam frowned. He looked past Dean to Molly and said, "What happened with Sally?"

"She went home. Set up the camera and everything."

"And Sherlock?"

"Went out," Molly answered.

"Where?"

"Didn't tell us."

"Why does it matter?" Dean demanded.

Sam checked his watch. "John's going to be home soon. Sherlock better get back before the doctor does. Besides, none of us can deal with him without John. No offense, Molly," Sam added quickly. She shrugged but there was a smile on her face. "Anything to eat? Me and Cas are starving."

"Yes, starving," Cas agreed, still standing behind Sam.

"Dean and I collaborated to make spaghetti and meatballs. Leftovers are in the fridge," Molly said.

"Dude, she is a phenomenal cook," Dean complimented and Molly blushed. Sam's lips tugged into a smile as he watched her.

By the time Sam and Cas sat down to eat, the door opened again with a soaked through John.

Umbrellaless and wet, he shook out his coat and ran a quick eye over the scene. He asked, "Where is he?"

"Don't know, said he was going out," Dean told him. They didn't even need to ask who "he" was.

John had his cell phone out and was already calling. "He's not answering," John said worriedly. "How long has he been gone?"

"Couple of hours at the least," Molly glanced at John who was running to Sherlock's borrowed room. "What's wrong?"

John returned and looked up, alarm in his eyes. "My pistol's gone," he said flatly. "My fucking pistol's gone and he usually texts me a few times a day." John moved to Sherlock's laptop and opened a phone-tracking site, typing slowly (by Sam's standards anyway). He cursed quietly.

"What?" Dean asked.

"There's a password," John muttered.

"Well, you know him best…" Dean trailed off as John began typing, Sam peering over the man's shoulders and mouthed along the words, _vatican cameos._ He had no idea what it meant, but it was the right password so Sam thought it better not to care.

"He's at someone's flat but I don't know whose address this is," John said.

Molly peered over his shoulder and stiffened. "John, that- that's Sally's address. I remember."

John looked up at her, confused. He minimized the window and his eyes widened. The surveillance camera footage from the camera planted by Sally showed the elder Mrs. Donovan and her daughter moving to a side room.

"Sally wasn't there before. We've been watching the entire time," Dean muttered then added "The Serpent…"

It seemed everyone sprang into action at the same time. John snapped, "Molly, keys!" Molly had already snatched her keys and was heading to the door, Sam tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans, following behind Molly and nodding to Dean.

"I'll stay here with Cas, try to find camera feeds from around the block of the address. I'll text you details," Dean told them as they left.

The rain hadn't eased up the slightest bit while they piled into the car. John was muttering under his breath about "that irresponsible egomaniac" but his face was worried and Molly was grimly silent while she pulled into gear.

"We need a plan," Sam said when no one else seemed likely to mention it. "If the Serpent's holding Sherlock captive, we can't just _march_ in there and rescue him. We don't even know what can be used as a weapon."

"He can't get hurt," John said. "I can't let him."

"That's why we need a plan, John, snap out of it!" Sam said, his voice getting loud.

John took a deep breath and looked over at him. "You're right. Okay. Plan."

Sam's phone buzzed and he checked the text. "Dean says he saw several people leaving the building but Sally wasn't one of them," he glanced up just as another text came in. "But he says he recognized a woman he's sure was Mrs. Hudson."

"Mrs. Hudson's possessed," John said dully.

"But whoever left the flat wasn't someone possessed," Molly said abruptly. John and Sam looked toward her. Her eyes were focused on the road but she spoke rapidly, "It was the Serpent. Shape-shifting, right? It turned into Mrs. Hudson and left him. Sherlock's alone."

"She's right," Sam added.

"Why would it leave Sherlock alone? Sherlock's a threat. Unless he was de-" John made a noise, a slight frightened one, and stopped talking.

Molly pulled into a spot and John was out of the car before it was fully parked. Rain spattered around them as Sam and Molly ran to keep up with him. They entered the building. "Second floor," Molly whispered and they went up the stairs two at a time. At the landing, Molly pointed at the door already open.

John slowed down as they approached it and the three of them came to the view nearly simultaneously. Molly gasped and covered her mouth with both hands, stopping on the spot. John did the opposite, running forward with a cry of "Sherlock! Jesus fucking Christ, no, _no_, nonono!"

A shirtless Sherlock lay motionless on the hardwood floor, his back to the door. Bullets, John's pistol, and his clothes scattered beside him at arms reach. Sam joined John kneeling beside him and realized Sherlock wasn't actually motionless. Sherlock shivered incessantly and his eyelids twitched, rolling open and shut. John was cradling his head upward and running a hand back through his heavy mop of hair, trying to get the detective to speak but he only made a few garbled sounds.

"Sherlock, please," John gasped, attempting to pull him into an upright position.

With hesitant fingers, Sam reached out to take Sherlock pulse, instantly noticing how warm he was to the touch. Beneath the quivering touch of clammy flesh, his heartrate was rocketing. "Molly," Sam turned to see her still at the door. "His coat!"

Molly nodded, moving forward. Together, they managed to get him into the damp coat and onto his feet. It seemed to do little good; his feet still dragged. John and Sam took him under the arms, trying their best to keep him up despite the height difference and his completely unresponsive muscles. Molly collected the bullets and his shirt and asked, "The car?"

John nodded. They left Sally's apartment together, Molly shutting the door behind them. They encountered no one else on the trip to the car and they stayed silent through the rain. It was only when Sherlock was settled in the backseat that John asked, "Is he going to be alright?"

"I don't know, John. We need to know what's wrong with him, whether it's physical or mental-"

"Damnit, Sam. Will he be alright?"

Sam swallowed and lied, "I think so,"

"Nngh, Joh-John?" Sherlock croaked. One of his eyes had opened.

"Sherlock!" John nodded encouragingly and put a hand on his cheek, supporting his lolling head. "I'm here, Sherlock. I'm right here."

"John? I'm bl-bl-blind," Sherlock gasped.

"What?" John sounded horrified. "Can you see me? We're with Molly and Sam, Sherlock. Can you see my hand?" He waved his hand before Sherlock's eyes.

"No, no. Not like, oh, no. Tell, tell my car… John…" Sherlock trailed off, eyes falling shut again.

John leaned closer and said, "It's okay, it's going to be okay. I'm here. Can you see?"

"My car? Is it something about the car?" Sam asked from the front seat. He exchanged a look with Molly. She was blinking back tears, Sam could tell. But fid Sherlock need to say something about the car? "Is it the car, Sherlock?" He repeated.

His eyes fluttered open again. He focused on John's face and said "Mycroft. You need to- need to. Tell him. Phone."

"You want me to call Mycroft, is that it? What about?" John asked. Sherlock floated in and out of consciousness. Now he fell back into the stupor. "Sherlock, no. Oh god, no. Don't. Just talk to me," John pleaded.

Sherlock seemed to hear him and his eyes opened again, looking slightly more lucid than before. "Serpent. Tell Mycroft."

"Sherlock, Mycroft already knows it's the Serpent," John said consolingly.

"Anthea. Demon. Tell My-Mycroft," Sherlock's head fell back on the seat and his eyelids dropped again.

John went through his pocket and gave his cell phone to Sam, but his gaze never once left Sherlock, his voice never stopped pleading with Sherlock to fight. But Sherlock didn't reply.

* * *

><p>They developed a watch system over Sherlock asleep in bed. Every eight hours, they traded off. Mycroft dropped by, Anthea conspicuously absent. He spent half the day by his brother's side, stroking his hair and mumbling things from their childhood. He left when his phone made a series of urgent beeps. He demanded to be called every few hours and kept up to date on his brother's condition. Before leaving, Mycroft warned them not to take him to a hospital. "They're infested with staff and patients bearing puncture wounds on their neck and possession tattoos."<p>

At first, John seemed determined to not leave Sherlock's side for a single moment, but he had to sleep and eat and shower. It was one of those rare moments that John had fallen asleep on the couch and Sam was flipping through an old ritual book two days after they found him that Sherlock awoke.

He called in a hoarse voice, "John?"

"Sherlock? It's me, Sam."

"Sam." Sherlock echoed. "Sam, what do you think about God?"

This was not what he expected from the man awakening from his state. Sam was taken aback, torn between calling John and answering the question. In the end, he said, "I don't know about God, but I can tell you about Lucifer."

"No," Sherlock insisted in his raspy voice through half-closed eyes. "About God."

Sam hesitated. He really should get John and text Mycroft. But he wanted to know why Sherlock had asked. "I think God's done a lousy job but tries to fix it. Does that help?"

"Sam, _it_ was a God. And it made _me_ a God. It helped me see."

"It?" Sam questioned. In a nervous move, he ran his fingers through his long hair.

"The closest I've come to feeling invincible was when I was under the influence of stimulants. It made me think better, it made me feel more alive than anything else. A powerful and addictive feeling, Sam, you've felt it as well, haven't you?" the detective asked, his blue eyes fixed on Sam.

_Demon blood. _Sam cleared his throat. Even now, so much time later, just the thought of the hot coppery liquid running over his tongue made his pulse accelerate. Sometimes, his mouth even watered and his hands trembled. The rush of power as he felt every drop running through his veins…Checking the feeling, Sam said, "Yes, I have."

Sherlock chuckled, coughed. "You've felt nothing, Sam Winchester. The power to appreciate God, to become God, stems from understanding nature and the behavior of all things. It requires one to truly use all of their senses. If one does so well enough, they can predict what will happen around them and even be able to control it. Do you see?"

Sam thought back to the carride, to Sherlock stammering, _John, I'm blind._ "Sherlock, what happened to you?" Sam whispered. Sherlock calmly met his gaze. There was something different about him now, Sam realized. He had always been brilliant and strangely collected but now it was his chief quality. He almost seemed to radiate that expression. Like you could _see_ his intelligence and confidence.

"The Serpent made me a God, Sam. The Serpent _is_ a God."

Sam found he had no answer. He said instead, "John's been waiting for you to wake up. This has been hell on him."

"John's a soldier. Soldiers know to walk through hell, and John is especially adept at the task. I've put him through the feeling plenty of times. I'm not proud of it, but it's true," Sherlock answered. He sat up and winced.

"Your brother was over," Sam supplied.

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together. "Have you told him about Anthea?"

Sam nodded. "He said she stopped coming in after you- after the night."

Sherlock nodded. "Expected. Well, call the rest of them in. I think they should know what I know."

"And what's that?"

"It told me, Sam," Sherlock said, his lips curved upward. "The Serpent thought I was ordinary and it told me how to defeat it."


	22. Chapter 22: We Are A Threat

Castiel was no stranger to lust. In the garrison, emotions were strongly looked down upon, but that didn't mean the occasional pang of ennui didn't overcome him, sometimes even grief or anger. He certainly had feelings for his team: affection and compassion. But the Winchesters had opened Cas to an entire new dimension in which stronger positive emotions took hold of him much more frequently. He had tried to find the prostitute Dean had set him up with attractive, but he couldn't. He had thought Anna or Meg may be objects of desire; they were only temporary. It seemed that lust, despite its commonness, was not an emotion Cas came much in contact with. Until now, of course.

He stared at Dean in the bed, lying stomach down. His hair was messy and slightly longer than it normally was, falling over his forehead. Even before he had admitted his true feelings to Dean, he would watch him sleeping often. Dean seemed to always wear armor when he was awake, arms crossed over his chest, taut muscles, sharp tongue, narrowed eyes. The man was only ever comfortable in bed, with his guard down and voice full of sleep.

Even though Castiel knew Dean was a warrior, he savored the sight of watching Dean sleep as a man. Perhaps because it comforted Cas, now that he was no longer an angel. If a man could be as strong and capable and still human as Dean was, surely Castiel could do so as well.

Castiel's legs complained; he'd been standing at the bedside for hours. He had never noticed such things as an angel but it seemed his vessel's body weakened too quickly. Cas sat at the edge of Molly's spare bed, reaching down to press his lips to Dean's forehead. Ever since Sherlock's experiment, Cas liked kissing.

The touch jerked Dean awake, whose instant reaction was to pull back. _Defensive; he isn't even fully awake yet, but the armor's already in place._

"You scared the fuck out of me, Cas. A warning would be nice next time," Dean scrubbed his face with both hands tiredly. Watching over the prophet and researching his condition was a more challenging task than they'd imagined, especially when he still hadn't gained conscious after two days.

"Sorry, I didn't want to disturb you. You looked… serene. It's nice to see you that way. You don't look it often."

"Yeah, well, full-time job, no vacations, lousy pay- I knew what I was signing up for," Dean muttered, sitting up.

Cas frowned. "None of us 'signed up' for it."

Dean shrugged. "But we chose to continue it. We had a choice there," he pointed out.

"Did we?" Castiel replied and Dean fell silent. Instead of waiting Dean out, Cas said, "Nothing new found on Sherlock. Sam's watching him."

"The man's fever has got to break _eventually_. Mycroft said he'd bring a doctor tomorrow if Sherlock didn't show signs of change. I think… I think he's going to turn out fine. Might actually be a self-induced coma, his brain just needs time. Where are the others?"

"Molly had to go to work. I think John's watching television."

"John needs to relax," Dean said softly.

"So do you," Cas countered. He reached to kiss Dean, Dean lowered his head and lifted his arms in a hug- they ended up colliding somewhere in the middle. Castiel chuckled nervously and pulled away. Ever since he'd lost his powers, a lot of what he did felt wrong and it made him uncomfortable. He felt like a burden.

"Sorry, I thought we were going for- I was just going to-" Dean stopped talking and kissed Cas lightly, as if to make up for the inconvenience. It was more chaste than the angel would have liked but Dean had on a smile and it kept any complaints.

Cas bit his lower lip and asked something that had been bugging him. "Are you my boyfriend?"

Dean blinked. "I- I don't know. I didn't think about it."

"Are we lovers?"

Dean visibly cringed. "How about friends with benefits? Let's go with that."

"Benefits?" Castiel felt slightly disappointed. "Why not lovers?"

Dean's tense demeanor had returned. "That requires a couple to actually… make love."

"Copulation?" Cas asked.

"Er, that's a blunt and scientific sort of way to put it, but yeah. You've got the gist of it."

Dean must've known the next question was coming. He _must_ have anticipated it on some level. So when Castiel said, "Why haven't we done it yet?", Dean shut his eyes and rolled back onto his stomach, avoiding Cas's curious scrutiny.

"It's not that easy," he said through the muffled pillow.

"I thought you liked it," Cas said plaintively.

"Yeah, but that was temporary relationships _with women!_" Dean asserted, turning his head to look up at the angel.

"Why is it different with me?"

Dean's shoulders raised in a horizontal shrug. "You have different anatomy."

"But it still works," Cas insisted. He thought of the clip he and Sherlock had watched together. "I've seen it."

Dean kept his face burrowed in the pillow for so long, Cas thought he might have fallen asleep again. But then Dean looked up and echoed, "You've _seen _it? What? How?"

Cas blinked, unsure how to answer. Luckily, he didn't have to. Outside their door, they heard Sam's voice loudly. Dean got off the bed and went to open the door, just as Sam appeared.

"He's awake," he said. Cas and Dean exchanged glances and followed Sam to the other room, where John was already standing over Sherlock.

The prophet looked tired and worn out, even though his eyes shined with clarity. Cas remembered how he had felt with the Leviathan's crowding inside him, screaming and clamoring for attention, tearing him apart but lending him power. Full of power- but dirty. _Filthy._ Corruption coursing through his veins. That's how Sherlock looked. That's how Sherlock _felt._ As though he had experienced something beyond himself. Cas didn't know how he knew but he did. In the same way one survivor of catastrophe can recognize another. Cas couldn't help but observe, "Sherlock, you don't look particularly good."

Beside him, Dean chuckled, "I figure I wouldn't look too peachy myself if I had faced the Serpent single-handed."

Sherlock shrugged but before he could answer, John said, "You didn't have to do it alone. You could've told one of us."

"I couldn't. It had to be me. Anyone else would've given it sufficient reason to attack or turn hostile- at least I thought so at the time. Now I know better. It doesn't consider us, any of us, a threat. Wherein lies the Serpent's greatest weakness," Sherlock looked smug as he said the last part. "Because we _are_ a threat."

"Well, what happened between you two? And what's it like?" Sam asked.

"Oh, it's magnificent. Strong and fast and clever- more clever than should be possible. As for what happened… we had a little chat."

"A little chat?" John demanded. "A little chat that left you shivering on the fucking floor? That put you in a coma for two days?" His voice was harsh. Angry. Another emotion Cas had felt amplified upon immersing himself in the human world. Also one of the most dangerous and volatile ones. Difficult to control.

Cas again felt useless. He could neither protect nor defend anyone in the room if the situation turned messy.

"John, I. I didn't think it would get so bad. Can we talk later?"

"Yeah, 'cause right now I think the important thing is finding out what we're up against and how to beat the son of a bitch," Dean added.

"That's the part that worries me. It won't be easy. I think you need to understand what it is. Or more specifically- what _she _is," Sherlock added then paused to cough.

"She? You think she's a she?" Sam asked skeptically.

"She is whatever form she takes. Do you know what she told me?" Sherlock closed his eyes and recited, "She said, 'The real weapons are in words.' She said it while in a female body; she said it with a smile on her face. Do you understand?" Sherlock's eyes opened.

"No," Dean helpfully answered.

"I just said those words and now that is what is. I'm still puzzling through the finer details, but I know that's what we have to do. It will be words that destroy her. She actually _is_ what we say she is. Mortal and human. Fallible. What she looks like and how we perceive her and label her. She was arrogant. She let me see into her. She let me be her. And I saw what this Serpent does and how. I saw her walking through Earth-" Sherlock winced suddenly and doubled over in bed, clutching his head.

Everyone in the room tensed, John leaning in and asking, "Are you alright?"

"It was a lot to take in, the things in her head. I can't dwell on it," Sherlock muttered grimly, struggling to straighten. "I can't even begin to comprehend all that time. Since before everything…"

"Well, what is it, like an Alpha?"

Sherlock turned to Dean and frowned. "An Alpha? I'm not familiar with the term."

"Yeah, like, you know. The first of its kind. The mother or father of the race," Dean explained.

"No, not an Alpha. An Alpha requires Betas, Gammas, Deltas, and so on. The Serpent… it's alone, it's the only one of its species and I'm sure that's how it will remain. It wouldn't have it any other way. Perhaps there was a time when the Serpent wasn't alone, when it had others. But that was a time before coherency or language. And being inside those memories is chaotic and painful." Sherlock abruptly stopped talking again, eyes squeezed shut.

"You're going to lose your mind, Prophet," Cas told him gravely.

All eyes in the room turned to the angel. "What?" Sherlock demanded, turning the full intensity of his gaze and the mind behind it to Castiel.

"Human minds aren't made to endure the full strength of greater memories. Our vessels, at any given time, can never reach their potential. There are certain things we forget as soon as we take forms smaller than our own. Forms that aren't waves or particles, forms with limits. If you truly did peek into the mind of a being so ancient, it will slowly eat away at your physical limits until you are mad."

"You mean like the Leviathans did with your vessel?" Sam asked.

Castiel's mouth automatically twisted into a frown with the bitterness of the memory. "Indeed. Except it was my body that could not contain the Leviathans. The force of their souls ripped my body apart but they were relatively simple creatures whose intelligence was easily filed by my brain. But the force of memories will attack your mind, Sherlock. It will seep in more and more often. You can hold it at bay by trying to forget them, but they will still come."

"Well, with that happy thought in mind, how do we fix him?" John asked.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and laughed. "We don't because we can't."

John's eyebrows drew together but before he could continue, a knock interrupted the discussion. Dean and Sam shared glances and Sam said, "Mycroft."

"Maybe," Dean countered, walking out of the room. But when he returned, it was indeed Mycroft with a dark-haired tall man in a well-tailored suit, his eyes fixed on a phone screen even as he entered the room.

Mycroft's shoulders relaxed when he saw his brother sitting up. John backed away from the bed so Mycroft could move forward and gingerly put a hand on Sherlock's shoulders. His first words were, "I got rid of Anthea."

"We all know that wasn't her real name," Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged Mycroft's hand off.

"Meet her replacement, Carlos."

"We all know that isn't his real name," Sherlock smirked.

"Shh," Mycroft replied, a rare smile on his lips. It promptly vanished with his next sentence. "Things are going awful on the political front. Incredibly influential but subtle power shifts have been occurring all around the globe. More and more people who matter are demons. I'm rather hard-pressed to find humans to fill my positions. They're being turned almost faster than I can replace them."

"All part of her plan," Sherlock said.

"So we've discovered the Serpent is… female?"

"No, but that's what've decided." Sherlock smiled. "I would explain but I feel a headache coming on."

"Too bad, isn't it? Explain anyway," Mycroft sank down on the bed and turned to everyone else. "Would you lot mind vacating the room?"

"Yes," John snapped. "You're not the only one waiting for him to wake up."

Sherlock coughed and gave John a look. John threw his hands up and left. Dean and Sam followed but when Cas moved to the door, Mycroft stopped him. "Would you mind staying? We may need your expertise and advice. I'm afraid we haven't had much time to properly assess your abilities and use them to our advantage."

Cas shifted uncomfortably. "I don't have any abilities. All my powers were lost when Heaven shut me out."

"Nonsense," Mycroft declared. He tapped his forehead and said, "If you are discounting your knowledge as a power, it is a grave mistake."

So Castiel stayed beside Carlos while Sherlock filled Mycroft in on all the details he had previously told the rest. Occasionally, Mycroft would pause to ask Cas a question about Heaven or angels or his lost skills. Sometimes, Cas didn't know. Other times, he wondered what Mycroft's query could possibly have to do with the situation at hand. He couldn't pretend to understand the inner workings of the man.

After Sherlock was finished, Mycroft and he talked very quickly in hushed voices, their heads close together. Finally, he straightened and said, "I'll see but I can't promise anything. I do have to tell you, whatever's happening is getting stronger. If this truly is all the work of many minions reporting to one Serpent, it is moving faster than I can keep track of. We have to find its weakness."

"Her. Her weakness," Sherlock corrected.

Mycroft stared at Sherlock and said, "I'm glad you're unharmed. And once more, I berate your lack of wits."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "It was a necessary risk. I didn't understand what I was dealing with at the time."

"Of course you didn't. Half of the advantage _she _has is the sudden quiet she's accomplishing her business in," Mycroft sneered as he pronounced the word. "Not with a bang, but a whimper. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled and all."

"If you're done spouting clichés," Sherlock said, "get lost, all of you. I need to rest."


	23. Chapter 23: It Had Already Corrupted

Mycroft Holmes awoke precisely at 6:30 AM, like every morning. He showered and dressed in an impeccable tailored Caraceni suit from Milan. He tried not to dwell on the fact that it fit him a little more snugly than he would've liked. _Is now really the time to worry about weight? Surely the Serpent takes priority._

At his dining table, Dorothy was already waiting with her phone, his planner, and a wonderful tight dress that bared her neck for a quick reassuring glance that it didn't have bites. _Quite a lovely neck, too. She could've been a model if she wasn't my assistant. Of course, being my assistant is undoubtedly better. _His breakfast- one poached egg minus the yolk, half a grapefruit, whole grain toast- was laid out. Mycroft mused for a moment that his ministers and associates had all been turned but his chef from Trinidad remained as happy and carefree and demon-free as the day he had first arrived.

At 7:30 AM, like always, the driver brought the car to the front of the house. He and Dorothy sat across from each other and Mycroft detailed what the duration of his day would be like. Dorothy made concise notes but Mycroft disapproved-_ she takes too long with the writing_. Although he kept a straight face, it annoyed him that she didn't know shorthand. He wondered how much longer he would have to settle for mediocre assistants. He missed Anthea. And Carlos.

_I don't care if it's the Apocalypse all over again, why can't they keep my bloody assistants out of it?_

The car dropped them off at Mycroft's building and at exactly 8:00 AM, Mycroft logged into his computer in his office. He checked the global stock market, updates on the international state of affairs, all the little tidbits of information travelling along the digital web. The entire world was shifting overnight. Mycroft almost loathed closing his eyes at night; fearing that when he awoke, he would no longer recognize it. _And even worse- the world won't recognize me. Or my authority._

He got in touch with several associates, officials even higher up on the scale than the government they "worked" for. Mycroft had once approached Sherlock to consult for these people; Sherlock hadn't even heard him out. The perks were quite amazing, even if the workload was difficult. Not for Mycroft, of course. Nothing was difficult for Mycroft.

It seemed there were even more people turning. Millions within the span of just a few hours. One associate from Sudan wrote: "I suspect more in the city are Bitten than Human."

_When did this happen?_ Mycroft wondered. _When did Human begin to have a capitalized letter before it?_

Was it (_she, _Mycroft corrected himself_)_ travelling? There didn't seem to be a pattern. And if she was travelling, how was she choosing where to go? Was she choosing at all? Mycroft was uncomfortable with the idea of an enemy who was unpredictable. Most humans (_or is it Humans now?) _fell into patterns; it was natural, it was instinctual. But there were no patterns here.

_There are always patterns. I must find them. I must apply myself._

He still remembered Sherlock's request last night. He debated whether or not to fulfill it. It seemed more like an indulgence than an actual plan of attack. Surely something more tangible, some sort of firepower, would be required to fight the Serpent.

But Mycroft knew, perhaps better than most, that strength was not always physical. As a matter of fact, the best of strength came from entirely mental means. He knew this. _But does Sherlock know it? _

In the end, he supposed it was about trusting his little brother. Which he didn't do, perhaps not at all. But this was bigger than his brother. Mycroft was worried about those headaches Sherlock had experienced last night. It was about that power the Serpent apparently possessed. Power like that- it wouldn't just corrupt, chances were it had already corrupted.

He returned to his computer and pulled up Sherlock's laptop. Mycroft knew how to override the system and send a video call. He sighed and clicked the button. A few beeps and clicks and-

"What? What's going on? Dude, my programs disappeared."

Dean Winchester. Mycroft and his associates had long been keeping an eye on those brothers in the states. A hardy bunch, constantly dying and returning and changing allegiances. _But also useful, yes. _Especially since Castiel had elected to be the Winchesters official guardian. And Mycroft was quite impressed with the angel, even if he was temporarily disabled. After all, the angel was responsible for Sherlock's life.

"Dean, it's Mycroft. I need to speak to my brother."

From behind Dean, John's face popped up. "No, he's sleeping. Let him sleep."

Mycroft frowned._ Still sleeping? From last night?_ Both he and Sherlock rarely felt the need to sleep for such elongated periods of time, if at all. It was that headache. The one the Serpent had induced. "I'll send my new assistant, Dorothy, over around afternoon with a doctor. Allow the doctor to take Sherlock's vitals."

"I think that's more Sherlock's choice than ours," Dean piped up.

"Dorothy?" John asked, before Mycroft could answer.

"Carlos was… compromised."

"Of course," John muttered.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Take care of him. I have business to attend to." Mycroft signed out and returned Sherlock's laptop to normal function. He stared at his own screen blankly. To an observer, it would look like an idle man drifting off into a daydream. They could not have imagined the vast array of Mycroft's brain, the threads and connections it was making.

He would have to rely on Sherlock's plan. The world was turning and it was part of Mycroft's job to ensure it continued to do so. If his little brother was the one who could find a way- _even if said way is entirely absurd and involves gender pronouns to be of such emphasis-_ then Mycroft would use that way.

So he sent a message to all his associates, all of them. Even those who had tried to hide their presence from Mycroft. He almost smiled as his message ripped through firewalls and breached security and hacked mainframes to reach their destination.

And even as it did, a new confidence took root in Mycroft; a comfort and pride all at once that started inside like a warm glow. He _did_, in fact, trust Sherlock. He had trusted him from the beginning, from when the little curly-headed boy would come crawl into his bed and whisper things about nightmares and insecurities, from when the strung-out overdosed adult lay in a hospital bed murmuring deliriously about his demons and ennui. That was all the Holmes brothers ever had- trust.

Mycroft checked his watch. He was still running on the perfect schedule. In exactly twenty minutes, he would enter the doors of the Diogenes Club where he would have a meeting with a man who claimed to be the King of Hell. Crowley, he called himself.

Rising from his chair, Mycroft saw that his message had been successfully delivered to each associate on the list.

And so Mycroft allowed himself this one small smile as his messaged appeared to people all around the planet. The Serpent couldn't escape, not with his brother, the Prophet, working on the other end of that chase.

_You can't hide from a Holmes._


	24. Chapter 24: Greatest Arsenal inthe World

There were too many stars in the sky- too many for London. It couldn't be real. London didn't have this many stars at night. There were palm trees, swaying in the darkness, dimly lit by the sliver of moon. There was a scent in the air, something he couldn't place but felt familiar. A sound made him look down, away from the sky.

A woman on her knees. Small, fragile. Her hands were folded together, as if in prayer. Tears ran down her face, dripping down on the scarf wrapped around her head. He raised a hand in her direction. They weren't his hands, these weren't his fingers. They were dark hands, short and stocky with grown nails. Yet here he was, moving those fingers like his own as he pointed at the woman.

"Bevakasha," she said- no, begged. _Please._

"Ani mehapes et Jesus," He said. _I'm looking for Jesus. _It wasn't his voice. It was high-pitched and nasally. His body moved forward another step and the woman flinched.

"Lo yodea. Ani mitstaer meod," she gasped. _I don't know. I'm sorry._

He reached out and touched her cheek, the flesh warm and trembling beneath his skin, wet with tears that he could _feel_ the salinity of. She flinched as the finger retreated. "Rav todot," he thanked her, then there was something else in his hands, he didn't remember how or where it came from. But it was there, a small knife, glinting dully with the silver moon.

She was sobbing with her head bowed. She hadn't noticed it yet. He kneeled across from her and reached out to embrace her. She didn't move away, perhaps too frightened by the move to react. But when the knife slid between her ribs, her head snapped up, eyes wide and lips moving silently.

He smiled as she screamed. Hot coppery liquid gushed out of the wound, over hands that weren't his.

Sherlock awoke in Molly's bed.

He couldn't breathe for a moment, the thought of blood still on those hands. He brought his hands up to his face- pale and slender and clean. Not the hand from his dreams. A sigh escaped him, though his heart still raced at how vivid the vicarious memory way.

The door opened a crack. "Sherlock?" John asked. "I thought I heard… what's wrong?"

"John," Sherlock muttered, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. "I'm living her life in my dreams."

"Who? The Serpent?"

"I can see moments. Moments from her life. Important things, insignificant things, just things that she's done. In different bodies," Sherlock abruptly stopped as he felt a stabbing pain in his head.

John saw him wince. He reached out to put a hand on the detective's forehead. Sherlock instinctively flinched away from the touch, then gingerly allowed John to touch his clammy skin. Sherlock could see the fear on John's face as he estimated the temperature of Sherlock's body and proclaimed, "You're burning up."

"I wasn't supposed to see those things, John. It- she- let me see and now I can't stop looking." Sherlock closed his eyes and for a split second, the night returned. He shuddered and opened them again. "How long?" He had been sleeping longer and more frequently than ever before in his life. Castiel said it was because his brain was trying to rest and expose him as little as possible to the memories while unconscious, but no one could stop them from seeping in while he slept.

John didn't answer. Instead, he said, "Mycroft said he was sending a doctor over."

"Tell him not to bother," Sherlock scoffed. "I've already been diagnosed by an angel."

John was quiet.

Sherlock knew he should try to alleviate the situation, say something comforting about how he could handle it or that John shouldn't bother worrying. But in the back of his mind was that painful reminder that John had already lost him once. Would his words even make a difference? Affection, he thought, was a double-edged sword. The more familiar he was with a person, the easier it was to deduce them. But the better he knew that person, the more clouded his judgment became.

"Well, I refuse to be a cripple, lying in bed all day!" Sherlock declared, sitting up. "We've got work to get done."

"What?" John asked quietly.

"There's a planet we have to save."

"How?"

"John, really. I'd think a man like you would have a lot better to offer than a few monosyllabic questions. Where's your enthusiasm?"

"Fell off a building," John snapped. "You can't keep doing stupid things like this, Sherlock!"

Sherlock snorted. "Let's not be overdram-"

"Don't you dare finish that word, Sherlock," John threatened. His eyes were dark and heavy as he leaned forward. "Don't you tell me I'm overreacting or being too dramatic. Don't you dare. Not after everything you've done, proving time and time again that you are too stubborn, too clever, too damn arrogant to ask for help. Not after you've proven you still don't trust the rest of us enough. We might have a planet to save, but not at your bloody expense."

"You think what I did was wrong," Sherlock stated.

"Wrong? No, maybe it wasn't wrong. Maybe it was exactly the right thing to do. I don't know. I don't care. But what it was, was stupid. It was stupid- you were stupid." John kissed Sherlock, hard. It was frantic, not romantic so much as desperate. "You can't barge into battle. Even if you have the greatest arsenal in the world."

"I also have the greatest soldiers in the world," Sherlock answered, taking John's face into both hands and returning to the kiss.

"No, stop," John replied, backing away. "No witty one-liners. You have to promise me you aren't going to- to… be an idiot."

"John, I can't just-"

"You promise me or you don't talk at all."

Sherlock glared at him.

John shook his head, disgusted, and left the room.

Sherlock sighed and shut his eyes, leaning back on the headboard. He wanted John's lips back on his own. He didn't want to fight, but what kind of promise was that? Don't be an idiot. Sherlock was _never_ an idiot. The last mistake was just that- a mistake. It was hastiness, not idiocy. Not idiocy…

Sherlock wasn't aware when he drifted off, but he now had another memory in his brain, surrounding him. Something new. He understood instinctively that it wasn't his memory. Another bit of the Serpent had leaked through. But this one- Sherlock wasn't sure if it was an old memory. This was recent.

He didn't recognize where he was, but it was somewhere powerful. He could feel that in the air. It was a large field, dead and desolate. There was a man in a well-tailored suit, glaring at him.

"I want them back," the man demanded in a British accent.

"You're not getting them back," Sherlock- no, it wasn't him, it wasn't his mouth or voice- answered.

"They're mine, and I'm the king of Hell, and _I WANT THEM!"_

"I don't need a title to tell you to piss off, Crowley. You're a nobody," he sneered.

"I _was_ a nobody. I worked my way up to this position. You, of all the creatures in the world, are a nobody. Who knows your name? Who knows what you do? You play games and pull little tricks… and I am not a person to play with. I don't care what filthy hole you slithered out of, but why don't you go back into it and leave me alone? I want my fucking demons back!" Crowley yelled.

Sherlock could feel the emotions inside him, amusement, boredom, the slightest tinge of excitement- _oh, I do hope this is a challenge-_ but his voice was absolutely and completely calm as he said, "Oh no, the trick isn't little this time. I've been asleep for far too long and I know what I want now. I came for the big leagues, not your little pond."

"You want Earth?" Crowley demanded.

"I didn't want your little pond, and don't want this little lake. I want the ocean."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Maybe we can make a deal then. A bargain. Which ocean do you want? The Atlantic? The Indian? I'm fond of the Pacific, so you'd better sweeten the pot if you're going to make an offer on it."

His body burst out laughing. The thrill of expecting a challenge was rapidly dying down inside him. "I don't bargain with the likes of you anyway. I don't want saltwater, you fool. I want Heaven and I'm going to use your demons to get it."

Crowley looked equally entertained by the notion. "You think you can walk my demons up an invisible staircase, knock on the door, and take Heaven?"

"Darling, they're not your demons anymore. They're mine. And I'm not going to knock and be polite. Where's the fun in that? I'm going to fight for it."

"You can't fight angels with demons."

"No, but I can fight angels with heroes."

"Heroes?" Sherlock could feel Crowley's confusion. He could see it on his face, in the crinkles of his eyes, in his attempts to conceal the emotion.

The Serpent laughed. "Humans are heroes. Angels are no better than androids, programmed machines. Your demons are little better than that. They crave chaos and commands. But humans are the ones who incite rebellion- don't you give me old Luci as an example of angels who rebel. It's the humanity in him that inspired the Brightstar. And human souls are more delicious than any angel. All that desire running rampant," the Serpent shivered in delight. "Yes. Angels can only be won over with an army of humans."

"Then why take my demons?"

"Oh, Crowley, you're such a baby. Always whining and sniveling. _I want my toys back, mummy. The older kids are being mean. I'll show them someday!"_ The Serpent mimicked. "You're the asshole who creeps around, waiting for disaster to strike so you could steal a position that was never yours to begin with. Nobody likes an asshole."

"That's what you're doing!" Crowley insisted. It really wasn't helping his position as the whiner.

"Everything already belongs to me, dear. You're borrowing it. And anyway, I only need your dirty demons to ensure the souls are mine when I make a deal with humans. You know how it is, the more souls I have, the more power I have. Give me enough, and soon I'll be able to control the rest without having to ask."

A growl interrupted the Serpent. Two hellhounds appeared beside Crowley. "I've had more than enough of you," he said, and pointed.

"He brings a bitch to kill the Head Bitch," the Serpent muttered and vanished.

Sherlock's eyes opened wide. Sam was shaking him awake, "Sherlock, hey! Mycroft's doctor just got here. Do you want me to send her in?"

"No, no doctor. Sam. The Serpent- she- I should've seen it- we're too late- it distracted us…"

"Okay, calm down," Sam said. "Relax. Deep breath. What is it?"

Sherlock blinked a few times and assessed the situation in his mind, fitting in the new puzzle pieces into their nooks and crannies. The picture was getting clearer; it wasn't pretty. "The Serpent," he said finally. "If she has enough souls, she doesn't need to ask for the rest. I didn't know the whole story before. Her words _do_ have power, but it isn't strong enough to order humans yet. That's why she's manipulating them into giving up their souls while she gets stronger."

"You mean… us, too? In the future?"

Sherlock's brows were furrowed together in concentration and he muttered under his breath, basic algebra. He looked up at Sam with uncharacteristic panic for the Prophet. "It's happening," he breathed. "There's only one reason these memories are coming to me, increasingly significant ones. Because it's happening. We can't trust the doctor Mycroft sent, even if she doesn't have the tattoo or the bite."

Sam's expression changed. "Sherlock, this is important. You're telling me that she can control us eventually?"

"Not eventually. Now."


End file.
